


Shoot all the Bluejays

by Lizz_88 (Bluejay00)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dub-con, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 162,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26254699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluejay00/pseuds/Lizz_88
Summary: Jared is sentenced to prison. He must navigate this new environment and figure out who to trust while coming to terms with the events that landed him in prison. Fortunately, he has two interesting new neighbors to help him settle in. It is not long before his attention is drawn by Jensen Ackles, an inmate who everyone seems to be afraid of, yet no one seems to know much about.
Relationships: Jensen Ackles/Jared Padalecki, Misha Collins/Richard Speight Jr.
Comments: 249
Kudos: 239





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is completed, a new chapter will be posted every Wednesday.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta, Candygramme :) Could not have finished this without your support! All remaining mistakes are my own.

Jared has many talents.

  
_Number 10P270_

  
He can do mental arithmetic quicker than most people he knows, he's got a certain way with people that gets him what he wants most of the time and he has finely tuned instincts that may as well be eyes in the back of his head.

  
_Please step forward_

  
People like him; he doesn't have to try. He's open and direct, in a way that people appreciate, respect, even.

  
_Name?_

_  
Jared Padalecki_

  
He's flexible, adaptable, a survivor. He thrives on unfamiliar ground, loves a challenge, craves that rush of adrenaline when he accomplishes the improbable.

  
_Charge?_

  
Jared has many talents.

  
Holding up a liquor store isn't one of them.

  
_Distribution of controlled substances and aggravated robbery_

  
That's dealing dope and stealing shit to you and me. With some bells and whistles. Whatever he does, he makes sure he excels. Doing less than your best isn't good enough, in for an inch...

  
_Length of sentence?_

  
Jared finally looks up at the man in front of him, beady eyes meeting his own over a plastic clipboard, disinterest radiating out of them. Unforgiving metal digs into his wrists, prevents him from raising a hand to wipe the hair out of his eyes. He fixes the officer with a stare, squares his shoulders and balls his fists before replying.

  
"Fifteen years."

  
*

  
The facts are on the piece of paper - printed in neat black and white, inescapable. Confirming details? Who would ever trust someone like him to confirm anything at all? It serves no purpose other than being a cruel reminder; you are going to spend the next fifteen years rotting away in those cuffs while I'll be out of here in ten minutes as soon as this bus leaves.

He climbs the steps of the bus with lead in his shoes. Three steps, the last shreds of freedom in his hands. If he keeps walking he will give up on his last chance to run; no turning back, and who knows if he will ever set foot outside again? There are no guarantees, not where he is going.

_Angola._

His jaw clenches as he drags himself past the driver. Next time he will feel solid ground under his feet will be in the prison grounds. Would the air smell different? Would it be like the jail in New Orleans he's spent the last few weeks in? He almost wishes he had had more time to prepare for prison. The courts had fast-tracked his case; something about a backlog that made the city look bad, and setting an example. Lucky him. Barely two months after he got arrested, he is already heading to a prison cell.

He chooses a strategic window seat near the front. Everyone who gets on next will have to walk past him, allowing him to label them appropriately as 'High Risk', 'No Risk', 'Undecided' or 'Likely to get killed before I'll find out'. That is one thing he learned during his brief stint in jail. It pays to know who you are dealing with. Boxes are convenient. They maintain order in what he is certain will be chaos.

The plastic seat is uncomfortable, or perhaps it's the combination of a suffocating orange jumpsuit in Louisiana's unforgiving humidity. Maybe it's just the hand and ankle cuffs even though he feels like he should be used to them by now. He hopes he never gets used to them.

The first inmate to join him on the bus has what he would call the telltale signs of someone who has been through the system. Broad shoulders pulled back, chin up, strong jaw clenched stubbornly. His hair is close-cropped, his eyebrows set in a cynical frown that breathes a sense of boredom and a general lack of interest in his surroundings. Like he has somewhere better to be. Don't they all? His steps are brisk and certain, clearly used to walking with his ankles cuffed he's not subjected to the embarrassing penguin walk Jared has been doing. Jared doesn't mistake the cold, calculating look in his eyes for anything other than what it is. Armor. If he wants to stay alive, this is what he will need to project. He has a long way to go.

One 'Watch Out For' so far. The criteria he has chosen for his categories are undefined and non-specific, but he will reassess them when the need to do so arises. He's flexible like that. You have to be if you want to be a survivor.

When the second inmate joins them, Jared's throat tightens and his already warm hands start to sweat. This one means business. Built like a shed, his shirt stretched tightly over a chest that wouldn't look out of place in a professional boxing ring, he takes up a lot of space. His bulging arms are covered in tattoos depicting ideologies that will make him fit right in with at least a small group of cons, will make a much larger group thirst for his blood. A cold stare fixes Jared immediately, makes him swallow thickly. Pinned. That's how it feels. A juicy fly in a spider's web. Pale blue eyes seem to look straight through him, but they register Jared's discomfort. Thin lips twitch above an unshaven chin; a smile that is not to be. Jared hadn't realized he was holding his breath until the Monster is out of sight, and he breathes out slowly.

High Risk.

The last one to get on almost sparks a hint of sympathy in Jared. If there was ever a personification of the phrase 'too pretty for prison' this would be it. A clean-shaven face that looks about seventeen, dark curls framing a face that can't be described as anything other than fragile. Wide blue eyes like something out of a magazine. Beautiful in an androgynous way. Going anywhere else, this one would have drawn admiring eyes. In this situation, it's pity or lust. Hopefully he's not a screamer.

With all unfortunates accounted for, three guards join them, and the doors close with a hiss that sizzles through Jared's veins like grease on a hot barbecue. One of the guards straightens his back and clears his throat.

"Upon your arrival at Louisiana State Penitentiary-"

That is his cue to zone out, to keep those words from seeping into his mind. He can pretend he is going somewhere else. The whole ordeal reminds him of going on school camp, albeit with a smaller group, too many tutors, and a disturbing amount of metal. Any moment now, someone will break out a camp song, and they will clap their hands along to the words. The mental image of Monster clapping his hands is enough to turn him off the idea instantly.

"You have been assigned a cellmate-"

Jared stares out the window; watches the world rush by, but already it feels foreign and far away. As if more than metal and glass separate him from it. Not his world anymore.

"Work detail will start on Monday-"

A chain clinks behind him, followed by a sigh of frustration. Best get used to it, buddy.

_The wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round and-_

Finally, the guard stops talking and sits down on the other side of the aisle, observing the four of them like a hawk. Jared only just resists the urge to roll his eyes. They're chained, on a fucking bus, what on earth does this idiot think they're going to do?

He could get a decent dent in the plastic shield in front of him with his shoulder. He could sink lower in his seat, lift his feet and deliver a nice kick to anyone who comes near him. But what's the point? He wants to think he still has something to lose, but it's difficult to come up with just what that would be when the crumbling remains of his life are further removed from him with every spin of the bus's wheels.

_The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town._

Everything around him is completely silent, making Jared hyper-aware of the fact that everyone but the one guard is behind him. If someone jumps him now, he will never see them coming. To see people approaching he would have to turn his back to the window and miss out on a last stolen glimpse of the outside world. Nothing competes with that; he will get to see plenty of the cons behind him in the years to come.

The ride from county jail to Angola should be about two and a half hours – he asked – but without a clock he has no idea how much time has passed or just where the fuck they are. Middle-of-fucking-nowhere, Louisiana. Part of him wants the journey to be over as soon as possible, and get this whole thing over and done with, while another part of him wants to stay on this bus forever and avoid the inevitable. Something can be said for both, and it is not as if picking one option is going to change anything.

The scenery stretches out more and more with every mile they travel. Houses make way for trees and fields unfold, stretching to the horizon. Any second now, they will reach the end of the world and fall off, evaporate, like a raindrop hitting the sidewalk.

His jumpsuit is too warm despite the rattling air conditioning on the bus. The sour smell of his own sweat is sickening but not as much as the knowledge of where he will be taking his next shower. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, searches for a sting to draw his mind away from the thoughts and images that have been creeping into his nightmares for weeks.

_Round and round._

It is only when a metallic taste hits his tongue that he reluctantly lets go of his lip, sucking it into his mouth to prolong the dull throbbing, nagging voice in the depths of his mind telling him to revel in it. Not a bad idea to get comfortable with pain. Should have put the sheets in his county jail cell to better use when he had the chance. Maybe.

When they finally turn into what looks like an excessively long driveway, every muscle in Jared's body tightens. Blood pounds through him to the rhythm of his heart, his hands turn clammy, and his throat is tight. The guard next to him stands up, eyes scanning the bus's passengers for any sign of trouble. Seemingly satisfied with what must be four docile expressions, ranging from resignation to barely controlled fear, he stretches to his full height once more. Must have some issues with being vertically challenged.

"We are now approaching the penitentiary. I'll warn ya'll now, don't even think about doing something stupid. There'll be armed guards waiting for us."

Between the four of them, Jared has the pretty one picked for a runner. In all honesty, getting shot before setting foot in Angola might be merciful for him.

The bus slows down and turns off the road. A quick glance out of the window almost makes Jared snort. Louisiana State Penitentiary, the largest maximum security prison in the country has a carport for an entrance. Focusing on the ridiculous sight of it is easier than letting his eyes drift to the metal fences either side of it. They seem to rise all the way to the heavens; ugly, pointy spikes like fingers clawing towards the clouds.

The bus stops under the carport and Jared hears the rumbling exchange between the driver and whoever calls themself the keeper of these gates. Heavy breathing interrupts his barely linear thoughts. He doesn't need to look to know it's the pretty one suddenly realizing he's going to be locked up with a couple thousand men who will leave this place in a pine box.

Tension rackets up in the bus, all four of them tiptoeing the edge, unsure of what they will find on the other side. Confident it won't be good. He feels connected to them, even while considering each of them a potential threat. They will be the new ones, the ones to fuck with. Good thing he's not planning on giving anyone an inch.

A tick. A low hum.

The gate opens.

Jared's breath catches in his throat, the reality of what is happening slamming into him unexpectedly. This is it.

Like the last step on the stairs leading to a plane, the last step off a plank aboard a pirate's ship, it feels like the last breath he will ever take. Fear spikes through him. Hot and insistent, but he pushes it down. The easiest way to paint a target on your back is by showing weakness.

Blocking out what's happening is no longer an option when the bus moves, drives onto the grounds, leaving the real world behind for the next fifteen years.

  
*

  
His eyes are drawn to white buildings and green fields, but splattered across them are armed guards and more fences. The metal screech of the gate closing behind shudders through him, from his clenched jaw all the way to his trembling fingers. Breathing becomes an effort when all he wants to do is hide under his seat like a child returning from school camp. 'Returning' is no longer part of his vocabulary; he has nothing to return to. No one. It used to give him comfort – now, the loneliness may choke him.

The bus turns left and comes to an abrupt halt in front of a bungalow-like building marked 'Reception Center'. The engine turns off, and Jared tries to switch his mind off with it.

One of the guards moves to the front, the third one remains in the back.

"Right," Number One speaks up, "form a line in the aisle, then follow us off the bus and into reception."

It's like a hotel; check out anytime you like; don't expect to leave. Chains clink behind him as the other cons stand up. He shifts his feet on the floor, plants them firmly before he stands up. He makes a point of not looking at the others as he steps into the aisle. Instead, he stares straight ahead, over the heads of the guards in front of him, while the others line up behind him.

"Follow me," Number One says. He opens the fence separating them from the driver. Number Two steps to the side to watch them pass. Jared follows slowly, small steps due to the chain linking his ankles. He puts his right foot on the first step down and almost falls out of the bus headfirst when the chain pulls tight. _Motherfucker._

It was hot on the bus, but nothing compared to the humidity outside that slips over his skin and sticks like glue. The sun beats down on him, hot rays like being roasted on a barbecue. _Fuck Louisiana._ He makes a mental note to plan any future robberies further up North as he crosses the concrete to reception. Number One holds open the door and points inside. The image reminds Jared of the ghost of 'Christmas Yet to Come' pointing Scrooge to his grave.

He steps over the threshold into a space like a waiting room at a doctor's office. Plastic chairs follow the two walls to form an L-shape, a reception desk behind what must be bulletproof glass on the other side. In the center of the room a prison guard in a navy blue uniform waits, a grin on his face.

"Welcome to Louisiana State, gentlemen. Take a seat."

The first inmate has joined him. Jared shuffles over to the far end of the row directly opposite reception. When Monster and the pretty one are in the room as well, another officer comes in and shuts the door behind him.

Trapped.

"Alright," the guard drawls, looking down at his clipboard. "All four of you will be going to GenPop. First you will be registered, searched, and issued a uniform."

Hopefully no orange; he has seen enough orange to last him fifteen years. Monster grunts, slides further down in his seat. The pretty one is wringing his hands, twitching in his chair. If he's trying to draw attention to himself he's succeeding spectacularly.

"Number 10P270, Padalecki, Jared and number 10M198, Mitchell, Raymond?"

Jared stands up, along with the first inmate to get on the bus after him, who shoots him a blank glance. One of the guards gestures for them to follow him into a room off the side of the reception desk. It's a well-lit room with two tables, each with a small stack of papers on them.

"Please confirm that the details on this form have been entered correctly." The officer hands both of them a single sheet of paper.

He skims the information, wonders why everyone needs him to confirm shit for them. The piece of paper summarizes his life so far using tick boxes with just the occasional note. Never been married. Male. Texan. Robber. Dealer. No known disabilities. He could add a few more things to the list. Idiot. Foolish. Untrustworthy.

_Guilty._

"Sign at the bottom if you agree that the information that has been entered is correct."

He's handed a pencil, his eyes lock on the dotted line. As if he's signing a rental contract. He is in a way. It's an involuntary contract for his new home. His fingers clench around the pen as he signs his name.

"We'll get you out of those jumpsuits first, then print you and you'll be good to go."

Go where?

"I'm going to uncuff you both so you can strip. Don't try anything stupid unless you wanna do your time in solitary confinement."

Mitchell doesn't respond, just holds his hands out so the officer can undo his cuffs. When Jared is uncuffed, his wrists sting from where he pulled on them. A thin, red line circles each of them like a bracelet. He rubs them while the officer undoes his ankle cuffs, eyes drifting to Mitchell. Unfazed. It's routine for him, he seems entirely disinterested in what is going on around him. Jared tries the scowl on for size, but it feels thin and fake on him.

"Strip."

Best to let go of any sense of privacy right away. He unzips the jumpsuit and shrugs it off, lets it pool around his ankles. A non-existent breeze teases against his sweat-slicked skin; a welcome reprieve.

"Just toss 'em in the corner."

Mitchell's jumpsuit lands in the corner next to the door, Jared's following suit. Jared's eyes are drawn to the tattoos on Mitchell's arms and back. Gang tattoos. Layers of ink offering a protective sheen that will keep him safe by association. His own arms feel uncomfortably bare in comparison. He pinches the bridge of his nose, fighting off a headache that is waiting for his attention to slip.

"Let's get a move on, gentlemen." The officer picks up a flashlight and a pair of latex gloves. "Padalecki, behind the table please."

He does as he is told, dragging his heels. Having someone with the authority to tell him what to do is new. He doesn't like it.

The officer walks around the table and shines the flashlight in his ears, up his nose, in his mouth. His nose never seemed like a private place but having it examined with a bright light leaves him feeling somewhat violated. It gets worse from there, even though Mitchell turns his back on them in a gesture Jared knows he would not have gotten from Monster. Finally, he's allowed to get dressed. He pulls his boxers back up and walks around the table to a stack of clothes.

His new wardrobe comes in a linen bag. A pair of gray sweats, blue track pants, three white t-shirts, four gray ones, seven pairs of boxers, a gray sweater, a blue hoodie and socks. He picks up the blue pants and gray sweater – layers preferable to maintaining a comfortable body temperature. He misses his jeans, trainers, comfortably worn clothes that fit him simply because he has worn them so often. He puts the clothes on quickly, teeth clenched. As if he's leaving his own skin behind.

  
*

  
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-fucking-tock.

Too damn loud in the now empty waiting room. Jared rubs his fingers together, tries to get rid of the black ink that has seeped into his skin. Permanent mark, you have now officially joined the ranks of criminals. Again. But for real this time because this is not county jail.

He's the last one left waiting, everyone else already picked up and taken to their cells. It can't be a good sign that he's still here. What in the world could be going on that means his cell isn't ready for his arrival yet?

Maybe his cellmate just killed someone. Maybe they're busy cleaning the bloodstains off the floor, so that he won't be too freaked out on his first day in. They probably wouldn't be so sensitive about that. A shiver of dread runs though him, even as he tries to suppress it. Now is not the time to get caught up in fear. Once he starts, he won't be able to stop. But nothing here serves as a distraction. Nothing but the ticking of that damned clock, ticking away the seconds that make up his sentence too slowly.

Fifteen years. Fifteen times fifty-two is seven hundred and eighty. Times seven is forty-nine... 5460 days. Times twenty-four is 54600, 54600... 131040 hours. Times sixty is... seven million... eight hundred thousand... and something. Fuck, too many seconds in his sentence to calculate and he kicks ass at maths. Knows exactly how much each bag of coke has to sell for to not only break even but make a nice profit and enable him to buy more.

If someone doesn't show up soon he's going to rip that clock off the wall and stomp on it until it's nothing more than a heap of plastic splinters. The day has been too long and the ride here drained him of what little energy he had. Somehow it seems unlikely that he'll get to sleep anytime soon.

"Padalecki?"

He looks up to find another prison officer at the door, this one holding a small cardboard box. He's older than the previous two, late forties, with thinning gray hair combed back neatly above a tired, sagging face. "Padalecki?" he asks again, more insistently this time, and while his voice is still soft, there's a certain steeliness in there that breathes years of discipline.

"Yes," he answers, standing up slowly.

"Harley Dugas, I'm one of the COs in C-Wing where you'll be staying."

Jared is not sure whether he's supposed to respond to that, but he nods just in case. No point in getting on the bad side of a guard on his first day in.

"I consider myself a fair man. Don't give me trouble, and I won't give you any. You cause me a migraine, and I'll know where to find you." He holds Jared's gaze for a moment, as if he's trying to assess just how much trouble Jared's going to be. Jared does his best to keep his face blank and to look trouble-free.

Dugas nods once before continuing. "Work detail starts on Monday. Over the weekend you will undergo a medical exam and a psych exam. Other than that, just do what everyone else does and you'll be fine."

Fine?

 _Fine_?

Hysterical laughter tickles his throat, but he conceals it with a cough. Fine.

"Here's your fishing kit," Dugas holds out the cardboard box. "That should see you through until your stuff arrives and we can set up your account."

Jared's numb fingers take the box from Dugas. It's not too heavy, but it's like a little slice of Christmas. "Thank you."

Dugas gives him a funny look that has Jared holding his breath. _Stop fucking up._

"Follow me," he says, turning around towards the door.

Jared breathes out in relief and clings to the box. He remembers the rest of his clothes just in time. He grabs them quickly, stuffing his kit in between the clothes to hide it in case anyone gets any ideas about who its rightful owner is.

He follows Dugas through a set of glass sliding doors at least two inches thick. They wait for the doors to close behind them before the next set opens. Once through those, there's a steel door that leads them outside. Dugas navigates them down a path in between fenced off fields. A large building in front of them is marked D-Wing but they turn right before they get closer. Two fenced doors later, there's another path and Jared is thoroughly disoriented, with too many doors and gates between him and the real world.

The yard on the right has a couple dozen inmates in it. Some of them standing in groups, some of them sitting at picnic tables, some of them exercising, but all of them turn their heads when Jared and Dugas walk by.

"Fishing day!" Someone shouts, followed by laughter that ripples across the yard, pricking Jared's skin.

"Fresh meat, get it today!" More laughter, but Jared pretends he doesn't hear anything. He holds his head high, eyes fixed on Dugas's balding head in front of him. Inside, he's shivering like a leaf in autumn, barely hanging onto its tree. A quick glance confirms what he'd heard about Angola's population; predominantly Black, each group perfectly separated and keeping to themselves. There's so many of them.

He's still tense when Dugas rounds a corner, taking him out of the line of sight from the yard. As they keep walking, Jared is taken aback by how huge this place is. Stretched out with enormous fields between the buildings, pathways cutting through in a maze that he can't keep track of. The grounds seem as big as a small town, an over-populated one at that. Dugas stops when two guards walk towards them. He glances at Jared from the corner of his eye, then leans in to listen to the guards.

"...got him pretty badly. Knife got stuck, didn't rupture anything but he's in the hospital."

Dugas nods. "Did he talk?"

"Not a word. And no one saw anything."

"Keep me posted?"

"Will do."

Jared fights down the nausea, chills running down his spine. He's sweating in the thick fabric of his sweater, but no way in hell is he taking it off. He'll sleep in it if he has to. They move on, Jared's mind on whoever got stabbed, wondering if he may be next. If not today, some other time. He has no illusions of making it to the end of his sentence without a scratch on him. Dugas startles him by suddenly speaking up.

"Each wing is self-contained. Mostly. They've got their rec room and gym. Every wing is made up of cell blocks that have their own showers and canteen. Medical ward's central, as is the church and school."

He's never going to get out of his wing.

Only serious injuries seem likely to get him out, but he'll pass on those if he can help it.

"They've got their own yards as well. Too big a place to have everyone hanging around together."

Too big a risk. Place this big? Got to be tight on security with prisoners comfortably outnumbering guards. He's not sure whether that should make him feel safe. He's one of them, one of thousands, a number in their system with no one giving a flying fuck whether he lives or dies. One fewer waste of tax payer's money. They probably wish he'd just slit his wrists now and get it over with.

"Here we are." Dugas stops and uses another key to get through a fenced door. The next path leads directly to a heavy door marked 'C-Wing'. Dugas opens the door and waits for Jared to walk in before following. It slams shut behind them with a clang that bounces off the walls and makes Jared's skull rattle in his head.

They're in an empty room with a door directly opposite the first one. Dugas waits in front of it, under a camera pointed at them. No keys for this one then. Jared squares his shoulders and focuses on the chipped green paint on the door. Here it is, his new home.

A buzzer sounds, and a click signals the door has been unlocked. It's like magic, only really not at all. Dugas pushes the door open and walks through, holding it for Jared. A narrow corridor appears straight ahead. Gray brick walls and brown linoleum on the floor. And he can't make himself step forward.

"Padalecki." It could have been said a lot harsher, but Dugas doesn't strike him as the kind of man that needs to raise his voice. He meets Dugas's eyes for a second, convinced the fear is easy to see on his face. Invisible fingers press against his windpipe, his feet are glued to the floor.

_I can't do this._

  
*

  
"Come on."

He doesn't want to anger Dugas, who seems nice enough, and Jared figures anyone who does not actively want to see him killed or hurt damn near qualifies as a friend. His feet are too heavy to lift, but he manages to shuffle forward enough for Dugas to let the door fall shut behind them. Dugas starts walking down the hallway, Jared trailing behind him, desperately trying to get a grip on himself. It's all about first impressions. If he makes the wrong one now, he's fucked for the next fifteen years, possibly in the most literal sense.

Focus. Focus. Don't become the next static on a guard's radio, the next con to get shanked. Focus.

He's startled out of his thoughts by the presence of two prisoners in blue and gray waiting in front of a door further down the corridor. The shorter one of them is leaning against the wall, hip cocked out, lazily observing them. His hair brushes past his ears, curling at the ends, a smirk playing around his lips. The other one stands just behind him, a good head taller, hands stuffed into the pockets of an oversized hoodie. He looks like a hobo, unruly dark hair held out of his face by a dark green bandana, scruff on his cheeks, but it's the piercing blue eyes that catch Jared's attention. His new neighbors. Would now be a good time to borrow a cuppa sugar?

"Hello gentlemen," Dugas nods at them, stopping at the same door, making Jared halt as well, slightly behind him.

The man with the blue eyes looks at him and nods back, but the other one just smiles his teeth bare. Jared catches a whiff of smoke, clinging to both of them. He's itching for a smoke.

"Bringing in some fresh meat, boss?"

Dugas's jaw clenches as he picks a key. "I suggest you keep your mouth shut if you've got nothing useful to say, Mr Speight."

Jared holds his breath, waiting for the inmate to respond, lose his temper. Maybe lash out physically. He's surprised when neither of these things happen. Instead, Speight looks over at the man behind him, grinning widely. "I'd never open my mouth again if I did that."

His friend doesn't look at him, but Jared doesn't miss the slight eye roll. Maybe not a friend. Jared's curiosity is sparked, but not enough to snuff out the shivers of fear that threaten to break through his barely held composure.

Dugas finally pushes the door open, allowing the two inmates to enter first.

"See ya around, fishie," Speight winks, before walking, no, sauntering off as if he owns the fucking place. The unnamed man glances at him quickly before following his friend. Jared relaxes when they're gone. So far, he's doing alright.

He follows Dugas into the cell block. The walls swallow him up instantly. It's massive. One long, wide corridor, two tiers with at least fifteen cells on each side. Inmates wander around everywhere, leaning against the bars of their cells, talking to each other, but again, all heads turn when Jared and Dugas walk by.

Three guys huddled next to the stairs, strung out. It may not be obvious to the naked eye but, Jared knows what to look for. Wide eyes, clenched jaws, light sheen of sweat that can't be explained by just the heat. A big Black guy in a cell on his left, arms folded, eyes watching like a hawk. Shaved heads and swastikas on his right, the designated Neo-Nazi's, and, fuck, he'd thought Angola was too low on White inmates for them to survive in here. Monster will fit right in with them.

Nerves prickle insistently under his skin, but he schools his features into what he prays looks like passive disinterest. He looks around but avoids the eyes lingering on his skin, clinging like tar. It's not that long a walk, but it may as well be a marathon with the shouts around him stretching every yard to a mile.

"Another fish!" Someone yells, followed by a "Nice ass, pretty boy, gonna share?"

"Back the fuck up, man. I saw him first."

He's barely got control of his feet by the time Dugas stops in front of a cell about halfway down the block, just in front of the second set of stairs leading to the upper level cells. Right in the middle of the block. Figures the day he lands himself in a max security prison is the day he develops affinity with claustrophobia.

"This is you," Dugas announces, pointing at the cell. "Marcus, meet your new cellie, Padalecki."

Jared fights the urge to take a step back when his new cell mate gets up off the bottom bunk.

_Fuck._

Jared is tall. He is used to being the tallest person in the room. This guy, though... this guy looks like he should play for the NBA. He has to be at least 6'5, broad shoulders and chest stretching his t-shirt, but it's the leeriness in his eyes as he gives Jared a once over that makes him want to turn tail and run. He makes Monster look like a puppy, something Jared would have laughed at not one hour ago. His long black hair is tied back in a stringy pony tail, light brown eyes look happy to see him indeed. The sentiment isn't mutual.

"I trust you both to play nice," Dugas continues, not taking his eyes off of Marcus. There's a clear warning there, the implications making Jared's head spin.

"I'll take real good care of him, boss." Voice like gravel under tires on a dirt road in the desert.

The shudder sizzles through him before he can stop it, and the tuna sandwich he had for lunch threatens to make a reappearance.

Dugas nods at him one last time before he leaves Jared standing in front of the cell.

Now what? Go in? Stay here with his arms full of clothes looking like a fool? Wait for someone to approach him?

 _No._ He needs to man the fuck up right now, because this isn't who he is. He doesn't jump at his own shadow, doesn't avoid a confrontation when it's thrown in his face.

He keeps his eyes on Marcus and takes one step forward, indicating he'd quite like to enter now. Marcus needs to move first, but he's showing no signs of intending to step aside any time soon. Instead he's staring down at Jared, which is a fucking surreal experience. First test, first of many.

He glares back at Marcus icily. "You gonna move, or we gonna stand here like idiots with our dicks in our hands?"

Time slows down, everything but Marcus blurring, until the world around him reduces to a Monet painting of colors. That's it then, he's gonna get the shit beaten out of him. Has to be some sort of record. Maybe he'll make the Guinness Book of Records, next to the man with the largest Charlie's Angels Memorabilia collection, and the woman with the largest natural breasts.

"Ohhh, he's a feisty one, Marcus," someone calls out behind him.

Marcus purses his lips, seemingly more amused than anything, but he does step aside. Jared clings to the small victory, like a child to its mother's hand. He walks past Marcus into the cell, but after three steps, he finds there's no further to go.

"Top bunk, fish," Marcus growls, then lets himself fall back on the bottom bunk. Fat fuck probably can't lift himself up far enough to climb the top bunk.

He'd underestimated how small it would be. No bigger than a cupboard, with bunks shoved to one side, a low, tiled wall behind it hiding a metal toilet from sight. There's a matching sink across from it, and that sums up everything in his new home.

Two seconds, and already the walls are closing in on him. He can't manage two seconds, how the fuck is he supposed to make it through the next fifteen years?

He dumps his pile of clothes on the top bunk, makes sure his fishing kit is hidden underneath them before he turns back around to hoist himself up. He can't. He's trapped between Marcus and the bunks.

_Oh fuck._

Marcus looks at him down his big nose that looks less like a nose and more a potato glued to his face.

"Stay the fuck away from me," Jared grinds out, then sidesteps quickly so he can pull himself up to his bunk. At least he has the height advantage now, even if it does mean his head is mere inches away from the ceiling. Marcus narrows his eyes at him, and for a moment Jared's certain he'll be pulled back down. It's just his luck to be assigned a cell mate who wouldn't look out of place as bouncer at a red neck strip joint.

Marcus scowls and disappears from sight, leaving the cell. His sudden departure unclenches something in Jared's chest and makes breathing a little easier. He's still in one piece, everything is fine. He takes a deep breath to calm himself down, then starts to arranges his clothes on the shelf next to his head, careful to spread out the weight so it won't collapse on him when he's asleep. Once he's done that he sits down cross-legged and picks up his fishing kit. Maybe it will have some cigarettes. Highly unlikely, but a guy can dream, right? He'd kill for a cigarette right about now.

He chews on his lip, analyzing the thought and coming to the conclusion getting nicotine may require doing someone a favor, so no. And he's not all that on board with the idea of killing someone for it either. He's not that desperate. Not yet.

Pushing the thought aside, he opens the box, his excitement dampened slightly but it may still have something good. Hopefully.

He picks up a small bottle of shampoo, and a matching one of what must be shower gel. He unscrews the lid of the first one to sniff it. Smells like detergent. The cheap kind. He sets it aside and confirms the second bottle is indeed shower gel. There's a roll-on deodorant of the same brand and a toothbrush with toothpaste. A small shaving kit in a see-through, plastic case. He hadn't even considered needing any of this, but it's nice to have it now. He pulls out an introduction letter and sets it aside without looking at it, grabbing a plastic comb instead. It's lime green and seems oddly out of place in the sombre decor of the prison. The only bright color in his cell. Apart from this comb, the world may as well be black and white.

A couple of stamps, a pencil and a notebook, a small bag of wine gums. _Wine gums._ He'd have preferred just one cigarette but it'll have to do for now.

All of his newly-acquired toiletries go on the shelf with his clothes. As he's organizing, his stomach rolls when he realizes what he's doing. He's settling in. Trying to make himself feel at home in his six by nine cell. It's an error of thought, one that can be lethal because this is not home. It will never be home, or safe, and there's no unwinding or relaxing. Not here.

Can't let his guard slip, and he'd better get on top of his game, because there is nothing to be found in luring himself into a false sense of security. Nothing but death.

A loud buzzer shakes him out of his gloomy thoughts. When he looks past the bars of his cell, prisoners are exiting their cells to start moving in the direction Jared entered from. He has no idea what's going on, until the guy from earlier - Speight - stops at the half open bars. _My fucking front door._

"Chow time, Fishie," he grins widely, and it even reaches his eyes. Jared's not sure what to think about that. But he is hungry, even all the rumors about prison food couldn't make him turn down dinner, right now.

He stuffs the wine gums and stamps under his pillow but can't be bothered to do the same with the notepad and pencil. Who the fuck is he going to write to, anyway?

He slides off his bunk and leaves the cell to join the steady stream of inmates leading out of the cell block. Speight and his friend are just in front of him, so he follows them, all the way doing his best to make it look as if he's not following them. Safety in numbers flashes through his mind, but the trick is to be selective about his numbers. Who's to say this Speight is anything but the sickest fuck in this place, and his 'friend' could just as well be his bitch.

He ignores the voice in his head telling him that the title of sickest fuck probably belongs to his very own cellmate.

  
*

  
They pass the door back into the corridor, but the group moves in the opposite direction from where Jared entered. They pass another door, then round a corner, and Jared finds himself in a large canteen that wouldn't look out of place in your average American high school. It's a wide open space with windows making up almost the entire wall on the far end. Round tables and long ones are scattered throughout in a non-existent pattern, with chairs around them. Along the wall next to the entrance is a buffet-type of set up, people behind it putting containers with food on trays. It's back to high school alright, only lacking in pretty girls and a mumbling geography teacher.

He gets in line behind Speight, takes a tray off the stack like everyone else. Some prisoners shoot him curious glances, some stare down at their feet and don't even notice him. A couple of them smirk, and he hears some mumbling about 'Marcus's new piece of ass'.

Speight glances at him over his shoulder, the smile gone from his face and replaced with something else. Hazel eyes observe him silently for a moment, before he turns back to his as-of-yet nameless friend. Jared watches him lean in and whisper something in the other man's ear. Blue eyes flicker to his own briefly before the man nods and looks back at his tray again. There's something odd about their interaction, but Jared can't put his finger on what it is. Too familiar, at least for where they are.

He shuffles along with the line, trying to ignore the fact that the food smells like bananas left in the sun for too long. Further down the line some cons push each other around, one of them raising his voice until a guard rushes over to break them up. He reaches the front of the line, and an older man with white hair looks at him expectantly from behind the counter.

"Meat, fish, veg?" He asks, and Jared stares at him blankly, trying to work out what he's just been asked. "Well?"

"Eh, um, meat?"

A plastic container is shoved on his tray, and Jared quickly moves on. He scores an apple and a carton of orange juice, and that's his dinner. Now the question is, where is he going to eat it?

The decision is made for him when he spots Speight at a table with his friend, pointing at the empty chair at their table. Jared walks over quickly, before someone else can snatch it. He puts his tray on the table and sits down.

"Hey Nemo, how you finding your new living arrangements?" Speight takes a huge bite of his food, smiling at Jared.

"It's alright."

Speight snorts, then swallows his food and points at his friend. "This is Misha. I'm Rich."

"I'm-"

"Listen," Rich continues, "I ain't trying to scare you but Marcus is a mean motherfucker. Dumb as a box of rocks, but mean."

A snappy reply of how fucking unhelpful that information is lingers on his lips, when his attention is drawn to Misha folding in on himself. His shoulders hunch, and his chin dips to his chest, and Jared realizes he hasn't heard Misha speak once. Rich does the talking, while Misha just watches silently. He's disproportionately curious about the two of them, more so when Rich's hand disappears under the table, and Misha relaxes instantly. How 'bout that?

"You gonna eat your food or stare some more?" Rich fixes him with an icy stare. Alright then, message received.

He peels the lid off the container and studies the contents, trying to identify his dinner and failing. Spaghetti and... those must be meatballs, though 'lumps of dirt' would be a more accurate description. They're drowning in a runny, orange tomato sauce. Jared's never been a particularly fussy eater but this doesn't look like food, so it shouldn't count towards being fussy. He wouldn't want to feed it to a dog.

"Dig in, Nemo, wouldn't wanna spend your first night being hungry, hm?"

There's something underlying Rich's words, a hint, and, coupled with his warning about Marcus, it's enough to make Jared take a reluctant spoonful. Once he gets over the soggy texture it's not as bad as he expected. It doesn't taste bad, it doesn't taste of anything at all. It does the job of alleviating his hunger well enough. They eat in silence for a while, and Jared allows his eyes to roam the canteen. It's packed, not an empty seat in sight. The voices mix like a wall of sound, droning, knocking against his ear drums. Everyone seems to know everyone. It's worse than being the new kid at school but still recognizable.

He's about halfway through his spaghetti when Marcus appears next to them. Jared tenses, decides to ignore him, but Rich has other plans.

"Can we help you?" He asks, fake sugary sweet that makes Jared's heart beat louder in his throat, and a drop of sweat trickle down his back.

Marcus raises an eyebrow at Rich, lets eyes drift to Misha. Something flickers in Rich's eyes, and the corners of his mouth curl up in an ugly snarl.

"I said, can we help you." The fakeness has left Rich's voice to be replaced with cold anger that holds a threat Jared wouldn't like to be on the other end of, despite Rich's considerably smaller size. Marcus ignores him, but his focus shifts away from Misha to Jared.

Jared tries not to cringe. He wants to completely ignore Marcus's presence like Misha is doing, but that would give Marcus the space to push. So instead of staring down at his food, he looks up at Marcus, doing his best to let nothing but disinterest show in his face. "Yeah?"

"Think you can talk to me like that, fish?" Marcus growls, looking exactly like the dumb pit bull he is. He sounds like one too.

"I said 'yeah'," Jared frowns, though he's fairly certain Marcus is referring to his little outburst in their cell earlier.

Rich snorts, and Marcus squares his shoulders, irritation radiating off him. His fingers skitter across the table, until they close around Jared's plastic fork. It's an oddly childish move for someone who's trying - maybe succeeding, but only a little - to be intimidating.

"Did you want something? Cause my spaghetti's getting cold." They have drawn the attention of a couple of nearby prisoners, eyes following their movements closely, ears straining to make out words.

"You just remember," Marcus says, voice lowered, "you can't hide from me."

Jared refuses to let the words get to him. He wouldn't be scared of Marcus if he ran into him on the street, and he's not going to be scared now. Sure, Marcus is bigger than him, stronger, but Jared fights dirty, and he's no pushover. If it comes to it, he's far from defenceless. That is if it's just Marcus coming, though.

"You can't hide from me either," Jared replies, keeping his eyes on Marcus without blinking. "Now give me back my fork or I'll shove it down your throat and decorate your insides."

"Problem, gentlemen?"

They all turn their heads to the voice and find Dugas standing behind Marcus, hands in his pockets, but the tension in his shoulders belies the casualness of his tone.

"Not at all, Boss," Marcus grinds out, putting on a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Just getting to know my new cellie a bit better."

"Then how about you give him his fork back and let him finish his dinner." There's a question mark in there somewhere, but anyone listening would know it was not a request.

Marcus puts Jared's fork back on the table, then pats Jared on the shoulder lightly. "I'll see you later, buddy."

Dugas watches him leave, then glances at Jared briefly before he walks back to his spot by the wall. As soon as they're both out of earshot, Rich snickers.

"Nemo, my man, that shit was great. The look on that ugly fuck's face."

Even Misha gives him a half-smile before he goes back to poking at his meatballs. Jared just shrugs. Rich confuses him with his mixed responses. He went from was being all confrontational to suddenly stepping back. To let Jared prove he can handle himself? Makes sense. Worked as well, he hopes. Interesting to see Rich snarling at Marcus as soon as his eyes landed on Misha.

He finishes his spaghetti, then his apple and orange juice, just in time before a loud buzzer informs them dinnertime is over.

"What happens now?" Jared asks Rich, following him and Misha with his tray.

"Dump rubbish and tray, head count, get locked down for the night."

"Locked down where?" It's a stupid question and he knows it.

Rich shoots him a sympathetic look over his shoulder. "In your cell, Nemo."

It's just after seven according to the clock on the wall. What on earth is he supposed to do in his cell?

_Avoid Marcus._

In a thirty square feet cell?

_Stay alive._

  
*

  
He dumps his empty containers in the trash and sets his tray on the stack next to it. The prisoners start moving back to their respective cell blocks, Jared following Rich and Misha to make sure he ends up in the right one. As they pass the heavy door leading back to their cells, Rich slows down to walk next to him. He leans over and lowers his voice so only Jared can hear him.

"You're doing great, Nemo, just keep swimming." And with that he's gone, catching up with Misha and disappearing into a cell across from Jared's but a few further down. Keep swimming. Try and keep his head above water more like. Marcus isn't back in their cell yet, but all the other inmates line up outside their cells so Jared joins them reluctantly, standing in front of the bars. He allows himself a curious look around, taking in faces, names when a guard with a clipboard starts moving down the lines and calling them out. Each name is met with a variation of 'Yes'.

Marcus comes to stand next to him, staring straight ahead as if Jared isn't there.

"Number 99M421, Marcus, Joe."

"Yessir."

"Number 10P270, Padalecki, Jared."

"Yes, sir," he mumbles, eyes following the guard as he moves further down the line. He remembers the odd name here and there. Isaiah. Jefferey. Eugene. Raoul. He will never remember all of them. Any of them. Once count is done, another officer yells for everyone to get in their cell.

Marcus is first, moving past Jared with a smirk on his face. Jared follows slowly and immediately lifts himself up on his bunk. He props his pillow up against the head frame, leaning back against it so he can observe what's going on beyond the bars. He has a reasonable view from here, can see into four cells, and some of the concrete between them. It's not a very exciting view.

"Cells closing!" Someone shouts. Another buzzer sounds before all bars slide shut with a loud clang of metal hitting metal. That's it, he's trapped. Not even his excellent lock-picking skills will save him now, because these bars don't seem to have a lock to pick. Another worthless skill he'd picked up out of boredom and a halfhearted sense of, who knows when this will come in handy? Much like the eyes in the back of his head, they're not doing him any favors. The bars close, but no one stops talking, to their cell mates or shouting across to other cells. Marcus rummages around below him, appearing to have found a magazine to skim through.

Jared can't believe his luck. He's scared Marcus off already? It reduces the itchy nerves that tingle under his skin a little, but he's going to remain alert. The noise dies down as people settle in to do whatever it is prisoners do when confined to their cells.

His eyes drift to the cells opposite him. Two prisoners playing a card game on the floor and talking quietly. The next cell down has one man asleep on the bottom bunk, the other one brushing his teeth. He smiles when he focuses on the next cell. It's Rich and Misha's. Somehow that makes him feel better. He can't see the back of the cell, but he can see Misha sitting on the floor with his back against the bunks, head bent down over a book. He looks completely oblivious to the world around him. That must be nice; get lost somewhere else so you don't have to deal with the reality going on around you.

Rich comes into view as he lies down on the bottom bunk. He looks over Misha's shoulder at the book and says something that makes Misha laugh. They look friendly enough. It'd be good to have a friend in here, someone who has his back, but that's the sort of thing that needs to be earned. Mutually. The best way to start probably doesn't involve invading their privacy by spying on them even if privacy is an illusion, and it's really not spying if they can't hide.

He pulls the wine gums out from under his pillow, then changes his mind and pushes them back, so he can open them under the pillow and hopefully not alert Marcus to the rustling. Shouldn't be this way, it's not part of his Bring It On approach, but he's tired, and he is just not in the mood to pick a fight over a handful of wine gums. That said, he would defend his ownership of them to the death, if challenged.

He shakes them out into his palm and starts arranging them on his mattress. There seems to be some kind of a farm theme going on. He has nine cows, a sheep, seven ducks, five chickens and three farmhouses. No farmer though. One of the ducks has a crushed wing but its smile isn't any less wide. He arranges them by type first. Then color. Then he tries to make an animal rainbow but there's no blue, which is a Rainbow Essential. Instead, he puts the animals around the farmhouses to create a landscape. He shifts his covers around to create a dip that can be a duck pool, and a slight hill for the sheep and cows. He's quite caught up in the whole thing, his mind pleasantly blank as he works on his candy farm, until sometime later a warning sounds that the lights will be turned off in fifteen minutes.

Oh shit, the lights! Of course Marcus isn't going to try anything with the lights on. Soon as they go out, he'll be protected by darkness and free to do whatever he wants.

 _No._ Need to stop thinking like that. He rushes to put the wine gums back in their bag, unwilling to linger on just why he doesn't simply eat them.

He slides off the bunk, toothpaste and brush clutched in one hand, and walks the short distance to the sink. He brushes his teeth quickly, not wildly impressed with the chalky taste but at least it has some minty undertones. He relieves himself quickly, glad to be shielded by the wall, but it's still extremely unpleasant.

He catches Marcus's eye when he walks back to his bunk, but neither of them says anything. Jared is back on his thin mattress moments later, looking down at himself and considering what to sleep in. He prefers to sleep naked but that's not an option he will entertain. His hoodie and sweatpants will be too warm though, so he strips those off along with his socks. He folds them neatly and is just putting them on the shelves with his other clothes, when a loud hum echoes through the cell block, and the lights turn off.

For a few seconds he can't see anything, disorientation lighting a spark of fear in his stomach that makes him feel nauseous. A faint light shines from outside his cell, probably to allow the guards to see or to point out the emergency exits. If there's an emergency in here. If someone sets the place on fire, he's screwed. Couple hundred prisoners trying to get out of C-Wing, and that's only if the bars even open. If not, they'll be trapped, and he'll burn like Louisiana fried chicken with the last face he'll ever lay eyes on being Marcus. His throat tightens and his hands are clammy as he tries to get a hold on himself.

_You're catastrophizing._

Do they even have smoke alarms?

_Don't do this._

It could happen, they're allowed to smoke outside, Jared saw them when he walked by the yards with Dugas earlier.

_I don't wanna die._

"Fuck," he whispers into the darkness, then mentally kicks himself for drawing attention. Marcus is completely silent, which does nothing to relax him. If he keeps this up, he'll be hyperventilating within five minutes, and then he can kiss whatever fragile reputation he's managed to build up so far goodbye.

It would help if there was something he could distract himself with. He lets his eyes drift across the empty space between the rows of cells. Straight ahead and two to the left. His eyes have slowly started to adjust to the dark, enough that he can make out two shadows. The shorter shape is standing with his back to Jared. It must be Rich, because the shape standing in front of him has Misha's messy hair. Rich has his hand on Misha's shoulder, leaning into him, while Misha's hand is raised as well, maybe to Rich's chest. To push him away? Jared chews on his lip, does his best to pick up any words, but they're too far away. He doesn't even hear any murmuring. He's intrigued, and it's enough of a distraction that the panic simmers down. Something to anchor him.

He pulls his legs to him to get under the covers, then stretches out. He is almost too tall for the bed, so it's a good thing that he usually sleeps on his side with his legs pulled up. The mattress is too thin, and the covers too stiff. His pillow is too flat, so he folds it up. With his head propped up against the metal bar serving as a headboard he has a good view of the other cells, and if Marcus gets any ideas, Jared will see him coming. His cell mate is entirely too quiet, and if Jared couldn't hear him breathing he would think him dead.

Isn't that just a lovely thought?

It's been a long day, or rather, a busy day. Too busy, and now that he's horizontal his eyelids feel heavy. He doesn't feel comfortable giving in and nodding off, even if he's so damned tired he can feel it in his bones. He's fighting sleep, trying to count the ceiling tiles, or the holes in each tile, the bars on his cell, and he's aware of the fact that he can't stay awake for the next fifteen years. That's when he hears it. A quiet whisper filled with promise.

"Can't hide from me, Fish."

His heart jumps in his throat, his skin too warm under the covers.

"I'll get you. You won't know when, but I will."

Then just fucking get it over with already. If this will happen sooner or later, why not make it sooner and get the inevitable out of the way. But Marcus makes no move, leaves him teetering on a knife edge of tension, which is so much worse than just acting on it. The uncertainty, the constant state of hyper-vigilance, he knows that will make him fray around the edges before any direct aggression will.

He's never been patient, and anyone who knows him will agree he doesn't turn his back on a conflict. What they don't know is that it's because he can't handle the insecurity of not knowing what will happen next. If he confronts, that puts the ball in his corner, puts him in control, and he can deal with any number of things when he's calling the shots. Marcus has successfully, effortlessly, identified his weak spot and used it against him in the span of mere hours. It doesn't bode well.

Jared pulls the covers up over his head to block out anything else Marcus may want to share with him. It's far too warm, but it's like hiding under his bed when he was four, so the monster couldn't get him. The only difference being that that was irrational, whereas his current predicament is very real.

He's not sure how long he lies on his bunk like that, completely frozen, but at some point heavy snores start filling the small space around him. Jared swallows under his homemade cave, shifting slightly to make the blood rush back to his now-asleep foot. Instant pins and needles make him wince when he stretches his leg out slowly to keep the bedsprings from creaking too loudly. Marcus is definitely out for the night, which means Jared can finally get some shut eye too.

He moves over to his other side, pushing the covers down marginally to feel the colder night air brush over his skin. He closes his eyes and listens to the humdrum sounds of the cell block. More snoring, coming from all directions. Some mumbling, rustling of covers and the creaking of bedsprings. There's the hissing and sighing of the pipes in the walls, and the hum of one of the night lights nearest to his cell. It's like a big orchestra of sounds, each one contributing to the unique music of a prison. It takes a long while, but eventually the ebb and flow of sound lulls him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note this chapter contains attempted non-con.
> 
> Many thanks to my awesome beta Candygramme!

Jared's first night in prison is a night filled with bad dreams. Some only an image or two, others a seemingly endless sequence of clocks, and iron bars and spaghetti. He wakes up every single time, gasping in the darkness, disoriented and still haunted by whatever was after him in his nightmare. By the time it's early morning, the sheets are burning, and his shirt is plastered to his skin. He feels worse than during a particularly bad hangover, limbs like noodles, weak enough that someone breathing on him will likely make him fall over. Just what he needs for his first full day in. 

Morning comes in the form of another loud buzzer that has Jared staring at the bars hopefully, waiting for them to open. No such thing happens. Instead he sees other inmates grabbing their towels and toiletries. His heart sinks with the realization of what's going on. After the night he's had, he really needs a shower to wash away the remnants of his nightmares. At the same time, he's not sure if he's going to be able to stand up for long enough.

Marcus's grinning face appears next to him a moment later, jerking Jared upright quickly. He only narrowly avoids the shelf over his head. 

"Morning Fish." Marcus gives him a quick once-over that has him flinch in disgust on the inside. Marcus scratches his head and steps over to the toilet to piss. Too much for one day already, and he hasn't even made it out of bed yet. He grabs his towel, a set of clean clothes, shower gel and shampoo and sets them aside. He pulls on his sweats but decides to leave the hoodie. It will just take that much longer to undress. He slides off the top bunk just as the bars on the cell roll open. Inmates immediately start moving towards the other end of the cell block, a slow shuffle of footsteps and voices.

They're loud, even this early in the day, but instead of paying attention to what anyone is saying he stands at the bars and looks around for Misha and Rich. He knows he's pushing some boundaries here, just because they talked to him and don't appear to want to cause him any trouble doesn't make them his friends, and 'can I please follow you into the shower' probably won't be met with excitement and glee.

As he stands there, trying to look like he has a reason to stall that is not them, he notices Rich is watching him from just in front of his cell, slightly narrowed eyes looking him over quickly. Is that a good thing? It annoys him how extremely not in the know he is about the comings and goings of a prison. Rich raises an eyebrow at him, and Misha tilts his head as if he's also looking for something. Jared walks towards them, relieved when Rich nods slowly even though Jared has no idea what he's nodding about.

"Mornin' Nemo."

"Morning," he replies, falling in step with them as they move to the far end of the cell block. They're both carrying towels and toiletries, so at least Jared's guessed that right.

There are a good hundred inmates in the cell block, but it seems the upper level cells are still locked.

"It's a rotating system," Rich answers Jared's unspoken question. "We can't all fit at the same time, so it's rotated every week."

Jared nods. Makes sense. Doesn't go a long way to making him feel any better. 

The showers are through a door at the end of the cell block. They are made up of a large locker room type hall with benches but definitely no lockers. It's a big room, with three entrances in the walls leading to what must be three different shower rooms. Rich and Misha make a beeline for the benches just next to the nearest shower. Everyone is moving around on automatic, going about their business like every other day. It's the first time he truly feels like a fish out of water. Maybe that's where the name comes from.

_Fish._

He takes the empty space next to Rich and follows everyone else's example in undressing quickly. The room is humid and smelly, like locker rooms are supposed to smell but the tone is a little different from your average locker room. Jared's never thought jokes about prison showers were based on anything but the truth yet he would quite like to have been proven wrong. Lingering eyes tell him he's shit out of luck with that.

He puts his clothes on the bench, shoes under it, then looks to see whether Rich and Misha are taking their towels in with them. He's careful to keep his eyes above the waist but it's difficult not to stop and stare at the amount of ink on Misha. His arms from hand to shoulder are completely covered in ink, intricate designs with small bursts of color here and there. He's got one on his collar bone, one over his heart, and another huge one on his stomach. That's a lot of ink on very pale skin, capturing Jared's eyes and unwilling to let them go.

"Nemo," Rich says, dragging Jared's eyes away from Misha. He's taken aback by the cold look in Rich's eyes, the tension in his shoulders and the balled up fists as if he's ready to take a swing at the merest provocation. Jared's eyes widen in realization, and he actually takes a step back, hand held up in apology.

"I'm... I didn't..."

Rich rolls his eyes. "Just shut up."

Something eases between them, and Rich nods his head towards the shower.

Misha enters first, taking a spot in the corner under one of the shower heads. Jared puts his towel with the others over a tiled wall and picks the shower head next to Rich, who is next to Misha. Showers are turned on around them so Jared follows suit, and the room fogs up almost instantly. He's not sure whether he should face the wall or face the room, but a quick look around shows him that most inmates are facing the wall. 

Not all of them.

He catches the eye of a very overweight man, who makes a lewd hand gesture, and a skinny, much younger guy who's standing next to him, staring down at his feet and positively shaking. His neck is bruised, dark smudges shaped like fingertips all the way around like a creepy necklace. The big guy slaps the smaller man's ass, beefy hand landing on flesh with a loud smack. The sound is greeted with cheers. It makes bile rise in the back of Jared's throat, and he's very glad he hasn't had anything to eat yet. 

He washes up quickly, methodically, hyperaware of just how relatively close everyone is to him - too crowded, can't get out. Rich is doing the same next to him, but he's turned towards Misha a little. It's either territorial or protective, maybe an unhealthy mix of both, but it sure as fuck sends a clear signal: 'do not cross'. Jared wasn't 'looking' before, but he still feels a little guilty.

He finishes when Rich and Misha do and while it was an experience he is not particularly looking forward to repeating, it does feel better to be clean. Yes, the water is only lukewarm and the pressure sucks, but it's water. He follows Rich and Misha back out, grabbing his towel on the way. When he looks over at the two of them Misha looks extremely pissed and to his surprise it seems to be aimed at Rich.

He ignores them while he towels himself dry and gets dressed, and by the time he trails behind them towards the canteen he's starting to feel like a lost puppy. It isn't right, he is _not_ a puppy but he _is_ kinda lost.

"They sign you up for work yet?" Rich asks while they're waiting in line with their trays.

Jared shrugs, eyeing the grits that are being dumped on the plates of people in front of them. "Said I'd start on Monday, but not sure what I'm gonna be doing."

Rich hums, then grins at the lady behind the counter when she gives him his breakfast. "Thanks darling."

"Where do you work?" He thanks the lady for his food.

"We work in the kitchen."

"Not right now."

"It's the weekend. They've got staff families working the kitchen on weekends."

They sit down at the same table they ate at last night. "How's that work?"

Rich picks up his spoon and starts shoveling down his grits as if he hasn't eaten in days. "In case you failed to miss the scenery on the way over, we're kinda in the middle of nowhere here, Nemo."

"Right?" He takes a small bite of his food, not surprised that breakfast is lacking in flavor like last night's dinner.

"Staff have a complex of their own near the prison grounds. It's got a school and a church and everything."

It's a fucking concentration camp and he is going to die. He glances over at Misha, who's slowly spooning up his breakfast. "Hey Misha?" he starts hesitantly, not sure if now is the best time to start a conversation, but then again, when is?

Misha looks up, blue eyes staring at him hard, and Jared almost wants to shy away from them. He doesn't. "Is there a place to get books around here?"

As the words come out of his mouth, he realizes he pretty much just gave himself away as far as the spying goes, but it's too late to take it back now.

"Rec room," Misha says, voice quiet but gruff. "There's a main library that comes 'round to stock it but you need to earn the guards' trust to be allowed to go there."

That's a lot of words all of a sudden for someone who has consistently kept his mouth shut since Jared met him yesterday. He kinda likes Misha's voice; it suits him, so unlike the Louisiana drawl that slides off the walls.

"I'll take you there after breakfast," Misha offers, raising an eyebrow at Rich when Rich shoots him a confused look.

"Awesome. Thank you."

They continue eating in silence. The coffee that came with the food is little more than mud water but it's bound to hold some kind of caffeine so it should at least keep him from falling asleep. Hopefully. 

"So what do you do on the weekends then?"

"Watch TV, read, do some weight lifting or play ball outside. Hey, d'you smoke?" Rich looks at him questioningly flaring up Jared's nicotine cravings.

"Fuck yeah." Plus smoking means going out for fresh air which sounds very good indeed. 

"Wanna get rid of these and go out for one?"

"I don't..." Jared hesitates. "My money hasn't come through yet, so I can't..."

"I know. Don't worry about it." Rich shrugs.

Jared shifts uncomfortably. That's not right, there's being nice, and being _weirdly_ nice and the words of Jared's cellie in county jail come back to him. Beware of your first week in. People will be nice and try to help you out and be your friend. That's when they turn on you, and suddenly you've got a debt to pay you don't remember acquiring.

He looks between Misha and Rich but fails to see that level of manipulation. What good would it do them; he's got nothing to offer.

_They don't know that._

He's a con, they'll probably assume correctly.

_Always got something to offer._

Something to be taken away by force more likely.

"I'm gonna pretend not to be offended here, Nemo, but we ain't the sharks you gotta watch out for. I think I'm more like Crush myself, and Mish makes a good Dory."

Misha pushes his chair back from the table abruptly and stands up, eyes shooting daggers at Rich. "Go fuck yourself," he bites out, turns around and walks off.

Rich sighs, runs a hand through his hair, his eyes following Misha as he moves around the room. It makes Jared wonder how much he is missing about whatever is going on between the two of them. It makes him curious.

"It's probably none of my business-" Jared starts to say, but Rich shuts him up before he can finish.

"Damn straight it ain't, Nemo," Rich growls, and Jared closes his mouth quickly.

They both take their trays back, then step outside through one of the doors. The sun is out but that nice feeling of early morning chill lingers in the air. It's a big yard, with picnic tables and benches. A few inmates are already outside smoking, guards hovering around the edges of the yard. Misha is sitting on one of the tables in the sun, his back to them as he stares through the fence at the bigger field past it. A small cloud of smoke drifts upwards next to him.

They walk up behind him, Rich clearing his throat before he hands Jared a cigarette and lighter. Jared smiles gratefully, everything else forgotten for a moment as he zeroes in on the cigarette. It takes him three tries to light it but then the first inhale is his very own slice of heaven. He closes his eyes, enjoys the sun on his face, and for a moment he can almost pretend that he's at home instead of here.

He hears Rich move around the table to Misha, hears them speak quietly but they're near enough that he can make out what they're saying without trying.

"M sorry, Mish."

"Uh-huh."

"You know I didn't-"

"Yeah. I know."

That seems to be the end of that conversation. Four exchanges, but it seems they don't need many words anyway.

Jared continues smoking in silence while he looks around the yard at the other inmates. They seem relaxed enough, but then again it's probably too early for confrontations. Even prisoners need time to wake up, right?

The nicotine rushes through him, softens him and dulls the harshness of the world around him a little. Cons are all standing in small groups, huddled together, keeping to their own. It seems there is a strict racial divide, each group with their own corner of the yard, glancing at the others from the corners of their eye. Always watching. His eyes are drawn to one of the inmates, leaning against a fence, slouched, face lax, eyes drooping.

So much for no drugs behind bars then.

"You wanna come check out the rec room?" Misha asks, appearing in his line of vision and effectively shielding Jared's eyes from the rising sun. 

He nods and flings the cigarette across the yard. He looks around one more time before following Misha back inside. 

They walk across the canteen, and it's as if Misha is a different person all of a sudden. Instead of staring down at the floor, he looks straight ahead, eyes drifting from face to face and he catches more than a few looks. He never looks away first. Nobody says anything to him, nobody makes a move. It would be nice if Misha could teach him that little trick because Jared does get the toothless grins, whistles, every sign that tells him he's at the bottom of the pecking order and he'll get what's coming.

They move further away from the cell block, up another corridor where two guards are standing around talking. Dugas isn't with them, these two are much younger. The taller one's eyes light up when he sees Misha and Jared coming towards them. His lips twist evilly, and Jared has half a mind to turn around, avoid whatever is going to happen next. Misha shows no sign of stopping, not until they have reached the guards, and they have to because they are blocking the way.

"Showin' around the new boy, Collins?"

Misha nods once, blue eyes fixed on the guards. If Jared were on the receiving end of that icy steeliness, he would know to back off. It seems the guards don't share his reservations. Perks of wearing a badge in this joint.

"Yes sir," Misha answers, subtle hint of sarcasm painting the last word. "I was gonna show him the rec room."

The guard hums, the other one just snickers, as if Misha said something funny.

"Your boy's got a physical scheduled for eleven. Best make sure he's ready to go then."

Misha nods again, but they have to wait a few seconds longer before the guards step aside to let them pass. Just as they're turning the corner one of them calls out.

"You make sure to give him the full tour, Collins. Wouldn't want him to feel he's missing out."

Misha keeps walking ahead of him, nothing about him giving away that he even heard it. Not until they're out of sight, and Misha's steps slow down, so Jared's walking next to him. Misha glances up at him wearily, defeat tinting his eyes turning them dim. The corner of his mouth twitches. "Could you... could you not ask?"

Jared nods. Hell yes. Whatever that was all about, he does not want to know. 

"Thanks, Jared." 

"How come they do appointments on the weekend anyway?"

Misha glances up at him briefly. "Experience learns that it is best to identify any risks as early as possible. No weekends for the medical staff." He pushes the door on his left open. A sign next to it indicates this is the C-Wing rec room. 

It looks better than the dump Jared was expecting. Bigger as well, spacious even, but then it has to be with a few hundred prisoners in C-Wing. Bookcases are bolted to one of the walls, chairs arranged in front of them. A case with games and a splattering of tables and chairs. Some inmates are playing cards at the tables, a handful watch TV on the other side of the room. Two guards sit at a table in the corner, keeping an eye on all of them, ready to jump in at the first hint of a disturbance. 

Jared tries to take in everything, familiarize himself with the space, but his attention is drawn to a guy with darkish hair, sitting on his own on a chair near the end of the bookcase. His long legs are stretched out in front of him, the same gray sweatpants Jared is wearing, though these ones look a bit more worn. His head is bent down over a book, obscuring his face and he seems oblivious to the world around him. He looks oddly lonely. As if everyone else gravitates away from him or keeps their distance on purpose. Almost as if they can't see him. 

Or don't want to.

Misha walks over to the bookcases and starts searching through them. Jared wonders if he's already read all of them and just how long he has been in here. It may be an inappropriate question to ask, the last thing Jared wants to do is alienate the only 'friends' he's got in here. He keeps his mouth shut, joins Misha in looking for something interesting to read.

"Are we allowed to take them back to our cells?"

"Mm-hm." Misha picks up a tattered copy of Our Mutual Friend and studies it thoughtfully. "Just one at a time, though."

Jared pulls out The DaVinci Code. He's heard about it but never actually had the chance to read the book. Or see the film. He's never been much of a reader but that will probably change soon enough.

"That one's good." Misha nods at the book in Jared's hand. "The other ones he wrote are better."

"It's a start, right?" Jared smiles, pleased when Misha smiles back at him even if it is paper thin. 

They're interrupted by someone reaching between them and grabbing the book from his hand.

"Who said you could have books, Fish?" Gravelly voice that belongs to the overweight man he saw in the shower earlier. The skinny kid is standing behind him awkwardly, and from this angle Jared can see the dark bruises around his throat peek out over the collar of his shirt. He winces before he can stop himself, the book all but forgotten for a moment. 

"I'm talking to you, Fish." The man tries to stand over him, which is just never going to happen.

"Yeah. Can I get my book back?" He asks casually, ignoring the snickers around him. Misha's still standing next to him, silent, but _there_ all the same.

"You gonna let him talk to you like that, Eugene?" someone calls.

Jared snorts at the name, something that does little to appease Eugene. Next thing he knows he's got a hand fisted in his shirt and he's being pressed up against the bookcase. Short or not, there's fucking _weight_ behind that, making the bookcase rattle against the wall. Right, so talking it out is no longer an option then. He flattens his hands against Eugene's chest and braces himself against the bookcase before pushing him back as hard as he can. It has the desired effect of Eugene stumbling backwards but unfortunately he pulls Jared with him. Jared just barely dodges the fist that comes flying towards his head, but he recovers quickly and punches Eugene right in the face.

As he's doing his best not to let Eugene beat him to a pulp, all he can think is, over a fucking _book_?

Eugene doesn't get a chance to retaliate when the two guards rush over and grab him from behind. Jared's first instinct is to lunge forward, get another punch in, but a hand clenching tight around his arm stops him.

"You're fucking dead, Fish," Eugene shouts. 

"Shut your fucking mouth, Eugene," one of the guards grunts as he manhandles Eugene out of the room. His eyes find Jared's. "First warning, Padalecki. Three strikes and you're out." And with that, they're gone.

The skinny kid twitches, fucking twitches, then looks around as if he's not sure how he ended up here. Wide eyes land on Jared, and just as Jared wants to open his mouth to say something, the kid runs out of the room as if the devil is hot on his heels. Nice.

Misha's hand lets go of his arm, and Jared senses him taking a slow step back. "That wasn't a very clever thing to do," Misha mumbles, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt.

"He took my book!" Jared protests, pointing at the door Eugene disappeared through.

Misha shakes his head, but he carefully avoids looking at Jared. "It's just a fucking book, man."

He's about to argue his case some more, but something holds him back. Some implicit adding up his mind does, mixing with what the guard had said to Misha before. Maybe Misha had something more important than a book taken from him. His cheeks flush, and suddenly he doesn't want to stay in the room anymore. If that is true, then yes, it is pretty stupid of him to get into a fight over the freaking DaVinci Code.

Even if it's not about the book. He doesn't want anyone in here to think he's a push over, that he'll just lie down and take it, which means defending every square inch of his territory. _Just like dogs_ his momma would have said.

He shoots Misha an apologetic look, but Misha is clinging to the book in his hand and not paying Jared any attention, unlike everyone else. It's almost a blessing. 

Jared feels eyes digging into his back. Someone's watching him. It's different from all other eyes watching him; he's distantly aware of those, these he can almost feel on his skin. When he turns around, he finds the lonely guy who is still sitting in the corner studying them quietly, shocking green eyes fixed on Jared with cold calculation. His finger is pressed on the page of his book, marking his spot, but Jared has his undivided attention. Jared swallows under the weight of his gaze. Misha catches him looking at the guy and starts fidgeting again.

"Did you want anything else or can we-"

"The book," Jared says, leaning down to pick it up from where Eugene had dropped it. Just as he's standing up again, the rumble of voices in the room is pierced by loud crinkling. In an instant the blood drains from Jared's face as his heart jumps in his throat, and he can't breathe.

_No._

Terror tickles up his spine, white-hot, insistent, his surroundings blur, the rec room melting with images in his head that turn his blood cold.

_Alex, no!_

The scream gets stuck in his throat as he sinks to his knees on the floor, rocking back and forth willing the images to stop. 

A cold hand on the back of his neck pulls him out of it. He gasps as if he's been under water.

"Jared?" Misha is next to him, hushed voice close to his ear. A second later the images are pushed back and he can see.

Misha's frowning face, eyes wide and alert.

"I'm fine," he grinds out, voice gravelly while each words stings his raw throat. "Can we go?"

Misha nods, pulls him upright with surprising ease. All eyes in the room cling to the two of them now. Great, first time in the rec room, and he has succeeded in making quite the spectacle of himself.

"How do you know my name?" Jared mumbles.

"Overheard it at count last night." Misha leads him back through the corridors, then the canteen and finally out the door to the yard. It's mostly empty now.

The sun is too bright, but Misha's hand on his back pushes him to a table in the shadows of the cell block. Jared leans against the table, spots Rich walking towards them quickly.

"What..." he starts, eyes searching Misha, but Misha shakes his head and mouths _later_.

Later. When the crazy person is out of earshot. He has been here for less than 24 hours, and he's already messing up left, right, and center. For a moment, he's fiercely jealous of the connection between the two of them. They have each other, and they seem to have each other's back. They don't have to lie awake at night, holding their breaths and listening for any indication that their cell mate is waking up. They don't know how good they've got it. For fuck's sake, what's Jared got? Marcus, of all people.

Some of his frustration must show in his face because Misha takes a hesitant step back, and Rich hisses out a breath through his teeth.

"Gettin' into trouble already, Nemo?"

"Don't," Misha interrupts him, shaking his head.

Rich holds his hands up, then lets them fall by his sides and shrugs his shoulders. "Fine. Just saying."

They'll never find out just what he was saying, when a guard appears in the open door.

"Padalecki! Time for your physical, let's go."

"What exactly is a physical?" Jared asks Rich and Misha, urgency behind his words. He has had enough bad things happen so far, really doesn't need to be adding to that.

"Well," Rich smirks, clapping his hands together, looking positively gleeful. "See, they kinda-"

"Fuck off, man," Misha interjects, slapping Rich up the back of his head, before focusing back on Jared. "Nothing unpleasant. They discuss your medical file, take blood and urine samples then ask if you're experiencing any discomfort."

"You mean apart from being here?"

Misha smiles sadly, but there is no denying his words make Jared feel a lot better.

"Padalecki! Do I have to come get you?"

"Coming. Sir." He looks down at the book in his hand, unsure of what to do with it. Misha holds out his hand, and Jared gives it to him.

Rich wiggles his eyebrows at him, before Jared turns around and quickly walks to the guard.

"Am I interrupting your tea party?" He asks, not unkindly, so Jared just shrugs. He holds out his hands for the cuffs that clasp in place around his wrists a moment later.

They start navigating the prison closer towards the entrance, meeting some guards and inmates on their way. Some of them have their ankles cuffed as they shuffle along awkwardly. Jared watches them closely, wondering just what one has to do to warrant those.

"High risk," the guard informs him as another one passes. "They're either in solitary or on death row."

Death row. Jared's eyes widen, and he nearly stumbles over his feet. Of course they have a death row at Angola. It's the state prison, the biggest prison, and Louisiana is all about the death penalty. He's starting to sweat through his shirt, mind spiraling off into panic. _Just keep breathing_. The thought is immediately followed by Rich's voice in his head. Just keep swimming, Nemo. It relaxes him a little, and he manages to keep up with the guard until they reach the medical wing. 

They're buzzed in and led to the reception area, where more guards and inmates are sitting down on cheap-looking plastic chairs. He gets a few curious glances from some of them, but no one says anything. How any of these men would know he is a new face is beyond him. Five thousand faces in this prison, there's no way anyone could know all of them. 

The guard points him to an empty chair. "I'll leave you to it. I'll pick you up when you're done. Just sit and wait to be called."

Jared walks over to the chair, doing his absolute best not to draw any unwanted attention to himself. He sits down slowly, glancing at a wheezing inmate sitting directly across from him. It's probably very easy to catch something in here. Place must be buzzing with bacteria, all just waiting for a new home.

The silence is broken by doors slamming open, guards yelling and nurses in dark blue scrubs rushing out from everywhere.

"BP's dropping, think it hit his artery."

"Jesus Christ what _is_ that?"

"His intestine, they got him with a hook, pulled it right out."

"Put him in here. I need sutures people, move it."

Jared watches with wide eyes as the gurney rolls past him, blood spouting up from a man's stomach like a bright red fountain. It splatters on the floor, leaving a trace on the light blue linoleum, until they disappear into what must be surgery. Like bread crumbs made of blood. The inmates around him don't seem to respond at all, damn near oblivious to the fact that one of them is bleeding out in the next room.

Jesus.

It takes thirteen minutes for the noise to die down. After thirteen minutes, one of the nurses comes out and whispers something in the ear of a guard. The guard gives a curt nod. That nod means death, Jared is sure of it.

Fuck.

People around him start being called forward by nurses in dark blue scrubs, emptying out the waiting area. It's not long before it's Jared's turn.

He follows the nurse through to an exam area directly behind the waiting room. It's small but sterile looking, with an exam table, and a lot of locked cabinets. Nothing lying around, everything regarded as a potential weapon. Jared really can't fault them for that. 

The nurse takes a blood sample, his blood pressure and an eye test. She checks his reflexes and has him measure and weigh himself all while she's scribbling furiously in what he presumes is his file. Once she's satisfied, she leaves him alone with the message that the doctor will be right in. Jared figures he's probably watched more than his fair share of prison films and TV shows, because he really feels this should be the part where a beautiful woman comes marching in and announces she's the doctor. TV shows lie, Jared knew that before, but he feels a little bit of hatred for them now. His doctor is a middle-aged, nervous looking man with shaky hands and a slight stutter.

How do people like that survive in a place like this, right side of the fence or not?

Fifteen minutes later he is on his way back to C-wing with Provisional Clearance. Declared healthy as long as the tests come back to confirm. He knows they will.

He eats lunch in the canteen with Misha and Rich, ignores the careful looks Misha keeps giving him. Jared has no doubt Misha filled Rich in on his little breakdown earlier, he can tell from the lack of witty remarks Rich throws his way.

"You got psych after this right?" Rich asks around a mouthful of egg sandwich.

Jared wrinkles his nose. "Yeah, two-thirty."

"You got a substance misuse issue?"

"That's not at all a random question," Jared mutters, but Rich simply raises an eyebrow at him.

"No. I don't."

"You got done for dealing," Misha points out gently, picking at his little heap of leaves that's pretentiously labeled a 'salad'.

"How do you even know that?"

Rich shrugs. "We hear things."

It's on the tip of Jared's tongue to ask what kind of things exactly, but he swallows it down. "A good dealer doesn't sample his own stuff," he says instead, feeling a small simmer of pride at his own words because, no, never. At least not after he started dealing.

He looks between Rich and Misha, sensing an opportunity. "Since we're playing 21 questions, what about you?"

"What about us what?" Rich asks sharply, but fuck it, this isn't gonna be a one-way street of information sharing. He's not the fucking Internet.

"What'd you get done for and do you have a drug problem?"

"Small word of advice, Nemo. Don't ask the first one if you wanna hang onto your teeth," Rich gives him a wide grin before continuing. "And no, I don't have a problem."

"Isn't the first stage denial or something?" Jared snorts, taking another bite of his own sandwich.

"I do," Misha mumbles into his tomatoes. "I go to drug counseling sessions twice a week."

"Oh." Between the two of them, he kinda had Rich picked for the junkie. Misha does not really seem to fit the type at first glance. A history of dealing means he has seen his share of junkies. The desperation, the downward spiral, and how hard they try to cling to some kind of control over themselves, only to have it all ripped away by drugs. It's an ever growing market he happily tapped into. Not as if they wouldn't go elsewhere if Jared didn't do it. Where there's a junkie there's a way, even if that way runs straight to a nice comfy spot six feet under. Jared was regarded as a tough but fair dealer. He didn't do discounts, he didn't give out loans, and he never asked for or accepted any kind of payment that wasn't cash. He'd made it a point not to socialize with his customers. No personal dealings. To realize that every single person he ever sold to was just that, a person, as real as Misha sitting in front of him now, that's an unsettling thought he would rather not explore further. "Why did you ask?"

"They're a bit reluctant to take no for an answer. Caught for dealing, it's not a stretch."

It is for any dealer who's good at what he does. He keeps that to himself. It'd just be his luck that Misha would also be in for dealing. "Twice a week?"

Misha shrugs. "They've got cookies, it's not that bad."

"Cookies?" He fails miserably at not sounding incredulous.

"It's not quite the same as heroin but it's as good as it gets in here," Misha says matter-of-factly.

"No chocolate in heroin," Rich winks, grinning when Misha rolls his eyes in response.

"Just pretend to be normal, you'll be fine," Rich says, turning his attention back to Jared.

"Who said I wasn't normal?"

Rich and Misha share a subtle look that only pisses Jared off more.

"Fuck both of you, you don't even know me."

"No," Rich agrees, "but we know inmates. And trust me on this one, Nemo, ain't a normal fucker in this place."

"Including the two of you?" If he was expecting a 'no', he's let down.

"As weird as they come," Misha nods, abandoning his salad in favor of sipping apple juice. He pauses, considers Jared for a moment. "Stop pretending none of this is happening. You're not on vacation, you don't get to go home next week. You get to make license plates next week or get your skull smashed in for taking the last pudding cup. You're in prison."

"Well fuck me, I hadn't noticed, what with the handcuffs and iron bars and all." He can't accept Misha's words. Can't look further ahead than three seconds from now. If he lets himself dwell on the fifteen years hanging over his head, he will lose it. Get himself a nice bed in the psych ward with the nutters. Maybe that's not so bad. It can be Plan Z.

They finish lunch just before Jared is whisked away by another guard. He's almost getting used to the cuffs already, knows just how far he can spread his arms without the metal digging into his wrists. As far as he's concerned, he's settling in a little too well. 

The psychiatrist is also a man, Doctor Robin. Doctor Robin is nice enough, smiling at Jared over horn-rimmed glasses, asking him how he's feeling. 'Surreal' probably won't do him much good in the long run, so he settles for a much safer 'alright' instead. Drugs come up, as promised, but Jared thinks he does a reasonably believable job of explaining he didn't sample his stuff. It's the question near the end, when Jared is just getting confident that he's passed and can leave now. That last question that catches him completely off guard.

"How are your nightmares, Jared?"

"Huh?" What the fuck?

"We received your records from the county jail," Doctor Robin explains, flicking through the open file on his desk. "It says here you regularly woke up screaming in the middle of the night, and you were given Valium."

"How is this relevant?" He forces out. _Act normal._

"It's relevant to your mental health, Jared. Do you want to tell me what they were about?"

Jared studies the doctor closely while he thinks about an answer. It annoys him how precisely the doctor pronounces each word, carefully enunciating syllables, crisp vowels that have no place in the swampy depths of Louisiana. He's not from around here, clearly. Probably some big shot shrink who wanted to save the world by helping out the fragile minds of one of the worst prisons in the country. Something to pat himself on the shoulder for, to brag about to his family over Christmas dinner. Fuck that, Jared is not going to be his next charity case. "I was on my way to Angola, who wouldn't have nightmares? That doesn't make me crazy."

"I didn't say it makes you crazy, Jared, but not everyone wakes up screaming. Repeatedly."

Jared shakes his head, stares down at his cuffed hands. Even now, in the shrink's office, they don't trust him. Maybe especially here, with the potential for emotions running high, How much trouble would he get into if he punched dear Doctor Robin?

"Okay, you don't have to talk if you don't want to. If you change your mind, though, you know where to find me."

*

He's escorted back to C-Wing, but instead of being allowed to go wherever he wants to, he's locked back into his cell. Marcus is stretched out on his bed, browsing a skin mag but he smirks when Jared is locked in.

"How's the head doctor, Fish?"

Jared ignores him, heaves himself up to his own bunk and picks up the DaVinci Code. He looks over to Rich and Misha's cell to find Misha sitting cross-legged in front of the bars, looking back at him. He raises an eyebrow, as if to ask if everything went alright. Jared holds up his thumb, even if he's not sure everything did go OK. It makes Misha smile and turn his head, presumably to tell Rich all is fine. Yeah, everything is fucking rainbows, and sunshine and my little ponies. 

Jared curls up on his side, facing the wall, hand reaching under his pillow for the wine gums. He eats cows and ducks until they're all even numbers before he puts them back. Time drags on, has to, but it's barely noticeable. At least there is no clock in the cell to torture him.

Dinner comes and goes uneventfully, apart from a minor altercation with some idiot who insists on being four feet wide and bumping into Jared with enough force that he nearly drops his lasagna. 

"What the fuck, man?" Jared glares at the man's retreating back, until he turns around.

"Problem, Fish?" He steps closer to Jared, who can't decide if he wants to punch the guy in the face or hold onto his lasagna. Somehow he doesn't think Angola is the kinda place that does seconds. If he could just put his lasagna down on a table, then use the tray to knock the idiot's big nose into his face. Maybe not.

"Yeah, I do. Watch where the fuck you're going." He stays where he is, even as the man keeps advancing on him.

"Why?" The guy balls his fists by his sides, ready for a fight.

A guard rushes to them, breaks them up before it gets out of hand but Jared is still fuming by the time he sits down with Rich and Misha. "You believe this guy?"

"You seem intent on landing your ass in the infirmary in your first week," Rich remarks, eyeing him thoughtfully.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"Hey. I get it. Hell, I was just like you."

Misha chews on his lip, frowns at his lasagna. "If you don't end up in the infirmary you'll end up in the hole."

"Whatever." Jared digs into his lasagna unsurprised to find he's starving,. "I'm not just gonna let everyone fuck with me like a little bitch."

"He bumped your shoulder," Misha bites out, "boo-fucking-hoo you want a goddamned band-aid for it?"

Jared's fork hovers in mid-air, eyes nearly bulging out of their sockets at Misha's outburst. Rich though, Rich looks at Misha as if he's just been given a puppy for Christmas.

"I just-"

"Whatever," Misha cuts in, giving him a sharp look before returning to his food.

"Mish is right, Nemo," Rich nods. "Slow down. You've got plenty of time to show everyone what you're made of."

"Not if they think I'm some kind of pushover." How can they not see that? "How long've you guys been here?"

"Four years," Rich answers, and when Misha shows no signs of intending to reply, Rich answers for him too. "Just over two and a half for him."

"Then you know. How can you not get it?"

"Maybe you're the one who doesn't get it, Nemo."

Those are the words that echo in his head long after he's locked back in his cell, long after the lights go out. Marcus tries to corner him again but Jared is too quick, not that that would do him any good if Marcus really wanted to harm him. He's probably just waiting for the right moment. Jared lies awake for what feels like hours after Marcus's snoring fills the cell. What the fuck was Rich talking about? Why would Jared not get it, when so far, every moment in this place he has been focused on surviving? Rich and Misha seem to be doing alright. Other inmates leave them alone, ignore them. The guards that had said those things to Misha earlier, would they still have done that if Rich had been there?

Jared thinks no, mostly because he can imagine Rich... taking offense, to put it mildly. Going on what he's seen of the two of them, Rich would likely punch first and ask questions later. He may be a bit shorter than many of the other inmates, but there's something intimidating about him. Powerful. So how do they do it? Going unnoticed and staying out of trouble sounds like a good way to get through his sentence as far as he's concerned.

His thoughts finally put him to sleep but they follow him into his dreams. Handcuffed to the bars, trying to get loose, a pretty girl standing in front of him, bleeding from her head, glassy eyes staring at him, until she falls forward in his lap, and he screams. 

"Goddamn it, Fish, what the fuck are you doing?" 

"Shut your fucking mouth, cocksucker, I'm trying to sleep!"

Jared blinks frantically, aware that the voices are real and not a part of his dream, but his surroundings won't change back to normal. Someone's breathing loudly, and it takes him a moment to realize it's him. Fingers close around his throat, and Jared lashes out without thinking. Knuckles crack against skin and bone, and a piercing scream makes his ears ring. The hands are reaching for him again, and he lunges forward, toppling off his bunk and landing in a heap on something not nearly as solid as the floor. Had he landed on the floor he probably would have shattered his kneecaps. 

There's yelling around him, people pulling him back, and he can finally see where he is, and what he's doing. Punching Marcus. Satisfying as that is, he should probably stop. He slumps against the bunk, all the fight going out of him now that it doesn't really matter anymore. "I'm sorry," he croaks, holding up his hands. "I thought he was... someone else."

Marcus is escorted to the hospital wing to have his ribs looked at, and Jared suddenly finds himself alone in his cell with Dugas.

"What's going on here?" Dugas asks, crouching in front of where Jared is sitting on the floor. 

Jared shrugs, picks at a loose thread on his boxers.

"He do something to you?"

He shakes his head, even though he wants to add a 'not yet'.

"Nightmare then?"

Jared looks over Dugas's shoulder to find both Misha and Rich watching him, He can see Misha shiver in the cold night air, wearing only his boxers. And there it is. Only reason he notices is because they have his full attention,. Rich's arm curls around Misha's waist, fingertips tracing down his ribs. It shoots something hot through him to watch that tanned hand against pale, inked skin. The contrast, the intimacy, the familiarity. Jared had that once, with Sandy. She was the exception to his rule of not socializing with junkies, but she didn't count. She wasn't hooked on anything when she met Jared.

Being with her is the closest he's ever come to a relationship, but it is nothing like Misha and Rich. Not in the least, because once Sandy developed a coke habit that was damn near enough to put Jared out of business, he never had all of her. He was never sure if she stayed with him for any other reason than the fact he could get her drugs. Fuck, he still misses her. She'd been there at his trial, shivering through withdrawals, with sallow skin and dark bruises around her eyes.

Where would she be now, without Jared to at least try to keep her out of trouble? It's not something he can bear to think about. She'd been such a great girl when he met her, still at university, studying pharmacology. Ah, the irony.

"Jared?"

"I'm fine. I'm sorry. Can I go back to bed now?"

Dugas nods and stands up, watches Jared pull himself off the floor and climb back into his bunk. "Marcus will be back, and he will be pissed."

"I know." Jared curls up under the covers, relaxing only when the bars slide shut. Loneliness covers him like an ice blanket, swallowing him up with its darkness. He can't do this for fifteen years. The prison settles down around him, murmurs making way for soft snoring. Marcus comes back within an hour, muttering under his breath. Jared pretends to be asleep and Marcus leaves him alone. Jared falls asleep eventually, a blissfully dreamless rest.

*

He still wakes up exhausted, going through the motions of getting showered and dressed without paying much attention to what is going on around him.

He gets his breakfast before Misha and Rich, but they join him at his table not long after he sits down.

"Morning, Nemo," Rich says, putting his tray down.

Jared grunts in response, spooning up soggy cereal.

"Rumor has it you went postal on Marcus's ass last night."

"As if you didn't see for yourself."

Rich hums, pointing his fork at Jared. "Just because you can see what goes on in our cell doesn't mean we can see into yours as well."

_Busted._ "I was just-"

"Curious," Rich finishes for him. If he's actually angry about Jared spying on them he's not showing it. "So you gonna tell us what happened?"

It's not on his to do list, but to be fair he probably owes them one. "Had a nightmare, woke up screaming, didn't know where I was. Then Marcus grabbed my arm and I-"

"Went to town on his ass," Rich smirks.

"Do you get off on finishing other people's sentences?"

"Not really, you're just awfully predictable."

"Are you alright?" Misha asks Jared, surprising him.

"Yeah?" He appreciates the concern, he really does, and he realizes it's a rare thing that he's unlikely to come across but this is tapping into territory he just can't deal with. He's fine, just fine. If he keeps repeating that to himself during the rest of the day, it isn't enough to make him believe it. Rich and Misha can probably tell, if the subtly exchanged glances are anything to go by. At least tomorrow is Monday, and he'll be given work to distract him. It's a nice thought, but unfortunately things never go as planned.

He's locked in his cell after dinner, and he's just about to hop on his bunk and continue reading the DaVinci Code when Marcus corners him. Which, to be fair, is not a difficult thing to do in such a small space. Before he has time to catch up with what is happening, he's pinned against the wall, arm across his throat effectively blocking off any screaming he may have wanted to do.

"We got a score to settle," Marcus growls, spittle flying from his mouth with each word. Jared would respond, would tell him to go fuck himself but the pressure on his throat is too much to squeeze any words past.

"Tell you what _sweetheart_ , you suck my dick and we'll forget all about your lil hissy fit last night, alright?"

Fuck. Something shortcircuits, pushes down the aggressive, on the offense response he's been trying so hard to project. His mind goes blank as his body goes limp, and it's entirely too easy for Marcus to push him down until he's kneeling on the hard, concrete floor. Marcus has one hand curled tightly in his hair, the other one pulling the drawstring on his sweats loose but Jared has vacated the premises. It's as if he's outside the cell, looking in through the bars, and seeing himself on his knees in front of Marcus whose dick is now hanging out. He can't squeeze any sound out of his throat, he can't move away or push Marcus off him, all he can do is sit there and stare. The sounds around him thicken until it sounds like he's under water, everything far away and blurry.

"Open up, Fish," a voice growls over his head as Jared desperately tries to get a grip on himself.

_Focus._

Focus on the solid ground scraping his knees, the tight pull of fingers in his hair, the pressure on his ankles.

_No_.

The world becomes sharper, blurry curtain lifting as instant rage boils up inside him. He slams his head back against the wall, satisfied at the sickening crunch and pained shout when the movement crushes Marcus's fingers. Jared takes advantage of the loosening grip by standing up quickly, grabbing Marcus's shirt and slamming him against the wall.

"Fucking bastard," Jared spits, pulling back his fist to punch Marcus as hard as he can. He feels bone break under his knuckles, his or Marcus's, but it doesn't stop him. Adrenaline courses through him thickly, and he keeps going, hitting the wall every now and then when Marcus successfully dodges his fist but it's not often.

He's in a vacuum, nothing penetrating, no sound at all but eventually hands on his arms pull him off Marcus. It's a struggle. Jared's arms flying around, a growl that doesn't register as human to his ears ripping up his throat. He's distantly aware of Marcus sliding down the wall a bloody mess, but then he's dragged out of the cell, hands cuffed behind him, a guard at each side. He's breathing heavily, heart pounding, and when the color seeps back into his vision he sees the other inmates all standing behind their bars looking at him. Monkeys in the zoo. Who's the monkey? He's pulled along to the cell block's exit, and as the adrenaline fades he's starting to feel tired again.

Each leg feels like it's weighed down by heavy sacks of potatoes. Good thing he's being dragged then. The door opens in front of him, Jared frowns and looks at the guard on his left, worry creeping into his veins. "Where are we going?"

What feels like a long walk and a million locked doors later, he's sitting on an exam table in the hospital wing, staring down at his cuffed hands. They'd removed them only long enough to link his hands in front of him instead. His knuckles are streaked with blood, at least some of which is his own. It doesn't hurt. In fact, he's not all the way sure they're his hands. They seem too big, somehow.

He has no idea how long he's been sitting here, and there's no clock to give him any indication of time passing. Maybe it stopped. Maybe he's dreaming. The curtain in front of him is pulled aside, and the same doctor from yesterday arrives.

"Do you hurt anywhere?" He asks, staring pointedly at Jared's knuckles when Jared shakes his head.

He pulls his hands up to his chest protectively, half-surprised they move when he wants them to. Must be his then. He follows a light with his eyes, and the doctor listens to his heart.

"You're fine," he says, sounding almost disappointed. "I'll get a nurse to bandage your hands, and then you're good to go."

Jared nods, but changes his mind a moment later. "Go where? I don't wanna go back to my cell. Marcus will kill me."

The doctor gives him a cynical smile. "I think you got there first." With that, he disappears, leaving Jared sitting on his own on the examination table.

What does that mean?

He got _where_ first? 

Jared frowns at the white wall, tries to organize his thoughts so they become linear again rather than half-formed and exponential. He searches his mind for the answer, finds it in big neon letters: _You killed Marcus._

He starts to tremble, and his tongue feels to big in his mouth. He didn't kill Marcus, he couldn't have. To kill someone you have to be a murderer, and Jared is not a murderer. His conscience raises a sarcastic eyebrow at him, and Jared chokes on a dry sob. "No," he whispers at his hands, desperate to convince something in this room that it didn't happen. His hands stay still and sad in his lap, showing no signs of belief or disbelief. "I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

Jared's head jerks up at the woman's voice, eyes finding her, and for a split second he sees Sandy, dark curls in disarray around her face, bright eyes, wide smile, clear laughter. It only lasts a second before the image is replaced with the nurse. She's very pretty. She's not Sandy.

Too tall for a start, where Sandy had barely come up to his chest. Her skin too tanned, where Sandy had been pale even before the drugs. He's distantly aware that this woman is talking to him, but he's too busy drawing similarities to the ghost of his ex-girlfriend to hear a word she's saying.

"Did I kill him?" He squeezes out, half-heartedly trying to pull his hands away when she starts cleaning his knuckles. _Now_ it hurts.

"Your cellmate?" She's got a different accent, not from around here. Somewhere a whole lot further up North like Doctor Robin. It doesn't annoy him as much as it does on Doctor Robin, though. Jared can't grasp why someone would voluntarily move to a place like this.

"You didn't. Came pretty damn close though." She seems nice enough, goes about his hands in a very efficient manner, and she doesn't seem afraid of him like the nurse at county jail had been.

"I didn't mean to," he whispers, examining the gauze that's being wrapped around his hand. Is that true? Did he really not mean to?

It's a hazy blur now, but he hadn't been able to stop. Had to keep going, Maybe he just hadn't wanted to stop. He looks up at the nurse who's working on his other hand now, and he gasps softly. It's as if she's radiating freedom, and outside and happiness bounce off her skin, make her shine in a way nothing in this place does. He can practically smell the sunshine on her. The real sun, the outside one, not the one that beats down on him when he's out in the yard smoking.

"What's your name?" He asks her, not really expecting an answer so he's surprised when he gets it.

"Alona," she says, putting the last bit of tape in place before holding his cuffed hands up to examine her work. "And you're Padalecki."

"Jared," he automatically corrects her. Before prison, no one had called him Padalecki since... no one called him Padalecki since. "Why do you work here?"

She considers him for a moment, seeming to assess the risk of telling him, well, anything. Given that he just beat his cellmate to a pulp, Jared is guessing he's not looking his most trustworthy.

She tilts her head and puts his hands back in his lap, then pulls a necklace from under her scrubs. Glinting gold of a ring catches the light. "Met a guy, fell in love. He lived here, and I figured I could be a nurse anywhere." She shrugs like it's no big deal. She's wrong.

"This isn't anywhere. Got a couple thousand killers, and rapists and robbers in here."

She quirks an eyebrow and the corners of her mouth twitch, only just holding back a smile. "Which one are you, Jared?"

_One of them._ Just as bad as all the killers in this place. Just another con. She pats his knee then steps back from the table and scribbles something on a notepad. "I'll tell the guard he can come pick you up."

"Wait!" He sits up straighter, relieved when she stops at the curtain. "Where are they taking me?"

She sighs, which is a bad sign if she likes him, a good sign if she despises him or doesn't care and just wants him to leave so she can go home to her husband. She seems sympathetic though, a little? She told him her name and what she's doing here. She wouldn't have told him that if she despised him. 

"I'm sorry," she says, "try to keep your head above water, Jared."

The click-clacking of her heels sounds too loud when she leaves him behind the curtain, and he deflates. This isn't going as planned at all. Not that he had a plan as such before coming here, but if he'd had one this wasn't it. Everything went completely wrong. _He_ went wrong, and he's fairly sure it has already cost him the two people he has tentatively begun to refer to in his head as his friends.

"Let's go, Padalecki."

He doesn't look at the guard, he's forgotten all of their faces except for Dugas's anyway. And this isn't Dugas. He slips off the exam table and follows the guard out of the infirmary, his head down to make sure his feet keep going. He considers asking the guard where they're going, but everyone so far has been very reluctant to answer that question. Jared startles when they slow down and he sees the reception building in front of him. 

There's an arrow pointing to the left of the building that says _Death Row,_ and he stops abruptly as fear spikes through him.

"Not there yet, Padalecki," the guard says, clearly annoyed, but Jared doesn't care.

"No, I... I shouldn't..." he swallows around the lump in his throat, tries to pull on his cuffs, but it's even more useless than normally, with the gauze on his hands. "I didn't kill Marcus, I don't belong here. Please."

"You're not going to Death Row, Padalecki, but if you don't stop yelling I will take you to the psych ward."

"We're not going to Death Row?" He whispers, reluctant to believe anything the guard says when the words 'Death Row' are printed white on black in front of him.

"No. Look." The guard points at the arrow next to it, pointing the other way. _Solitary Confinement._

Oh. Oh _fuck_.

"Move it," the guard grunts, clearly out of patience now.

Jared shuffles after him, well aware that the mention of the psych ward was not an empty threat. So far, he has not made the best impression when it comes to his sanity. The guard holds the door open for him, and Jared walks into a dark corridor with steel doors on either side. He swallows again, trying to ignore how constricting the space feels. It's as if the air is thicker in here, filled with loneliness and despair.

"One week," the guard says, picking out a key from his belt. "Your food will be delivered to your cell twice a day. You have a mattress and a toilet."

Hope drains from him as if someone's sucking it out through a straw. One week with no books, no people, no nothing but himself to keep him sane.

"And I'm gonna need your clothes." The guard stops in front of one of the steel doors.

"All of them?" Jared closes his eyes when the guard nods. "You gonna take off the cuffs, so I can undress then?"

"You gonna lose your shit if I do?"

"I won't," Jared says quietly, resigning himself to the fact that as far as the guards go, his brittle reputation is in the toilet. The guard unlocks his cuffs and takes them off before moving a step back and watching him carefully. No point in slowing this down, even if he knows there won't be any more human contact for a whole week. 

He pulls off his clothes, and when the guard makes no move to take them from him he lets them drop to the floor. When he's stripped down to his boxers he looks back up to find the guard wincing uncomfortably. "Gonna need those too I'm afraid."

Oh. For fuck's sake, what damage could he possibly do with his boxers? He's not stupid enough to think arguing will get him anywhere so he takes them off, too.

The guard nods once and unlocks the door in front of him. The obvious effort it takes him to push the door open makes Jared's head spin, and his stomach clench. He steps inside and immediately wants to turn around and run back out. No amount of movies or TV could have prepared him for the reality of this empty _hole_ of a room. There's no window, the only light comes from a lonely light bulb dangling from a near-black ceiling. The floor is the same pale gray concrete as his cell, the walls of brick just a shade darker and matching the ceiling. There's a metal toilet with a sink in the corner, and a thin, bare mattress without pillows or sheets against the wall.

"See you next week, Padalecki," the guard says behind him, before the heavy steel door slides shut. His skin itches as the realization of just how isolated he is sinks in. He's still on prison grounds, with thousands of people around but he can't see them. Can't hear them so he might as well be snowed in in a cabin deep in a forest. His cell in C-wing suddenly seems like paradise compared to this.

He takes in his surroundings slowly, but the panic is creeping in already. There is absolutely nothing here to keep him distracted. He will be alone with his thoughts for the next seven days, locked in this place, locked in his head which is about the last place in the world he wants to be right now. He moves over to the mattress slowly, feeling oddly self-conscious about being naked, even though there's no one else around to see him.

He sits down on the mattress, not surprised when his ass touches the floor instantly. Now that he's sitting down, he suddenly feels exhausted, the events of the past few hours taking their toll on him. Lying down and trying to get some sleep feels too much like giving in though, which yes, is irrational as fuck, it's not as if he has a better alternative plus if he does manage to sleep it'll kill a few hours.

"Every cloud," he mutters under his breath as he stretches out on the thin mattress. It's as uncomfortable as it looks, only marginally better than the floor. He lies on his back, eyes closed, and pretends that he's somewhere else. Back in his tiny one-bedroom apartment in New Orleans, in his own bed, watching the ceiling fan rotate. He can almost smell the fabric softener on his pillow, feel the soft fleece of his comforter. He can picture the view out of his bedroom window perfectly; dark night sky, stretching endlessly, like black velvet over a busy street. It was never quiet in his home, not even when he was alone. There were always voices from outside filtering in, traffic. It's too damn quiet in here.

If he were home now he'd put on his stereo and lie in bed, watch the world go by to the sound of Metallica, turned low because he'd had enough warnings from his downstairs neighbors to last to the end of his lease. Last thing he needed was to get the police called on his ass. Or he'd curl up with Sandy, sharing a cigarette in post-orgasmic bliss. Those times had become few and far between as Sandy grew more interested in coke than in Jared. 

When he next opens his eyes, the lights are dimmed so there's only just enough light for him to see the outline of the toilet. He's too tired to fully register the panic that burns through him, his eyelids drooping. Lying on a thin mattress, on the floor, with no clothes on and no sheets to cover him makes him feel vulnerable.

Anyone could just walk in and he'd be asleep and defenseless. It's kind of the point that no one comes in though, it's the very essence of isolation. The thoughts feel too big for his head, which he finds amusing in a very detached way. He closes his eyes again, lets himself drift back to his own bed, and he doesn't notice falling asleep.

It's a restless sleep that has him waking up multiple times, but he only opens his eyes minimally so that he doesn't have to deal with the reality of the situation.

Morning comes in the form of the light being turned back on, and a knock on his door with a disembodied voice announcing it's time for breakfast. When the food slot in the door opens Jared rushes to grab the tray that is being handed to him. The tiny door slams shut as soon as the tray is pushed through, but Jared stays where he is; cross-legged on the floor, bare ass on the concrete, tray in his lap. It's not long before the floor becomes too cold to sit on, so he stands up and sits on his mattress instead, his back against the brick wall, and the tray in his lap.

Breakfast is the same as yesterday: a plastic bowl with soggy cereal, two slices of toast with jelly, an apple and a poor excuse for a plastic cup of coffee. He takes a few bites of the toast and studies the walls, looking for anything to indicate that someone had been here before him. He's not entirely sure what he is looking for, but it doesn't matter because there is nothing. He stirs the cereal around and round, crushing them with the back of his spoon until it turns to mush. Good thing he wasn't planning on eating it anyway,. 

It disturbs him how no sound seems to penetrate the cell. He knows there are other cells in this block, but either they're all vacant or the walls are something like six inches thick. Neither thought is very comforting. He sips lukewarm coffee, not even wincing at the bitter taste anymore.

What to do now.

He returns the tray when someone bangs on the door. He sits with his back to the door, surveying the cell. He wonders what Rich and Misha are doing, whether they will have forgotten about him already. They'll be at work now in the kitchen. Maybe they made his breakfast. Unlikely with more than one prison kitchen to supply food, but there's a small chance. They probably won't want anything to do with him anymore. Who would want to let a psycho into their inner circle?

He should view his current situation as moving house, like he did about a million times when he was younger. He'll move again in six days, and he'll find new not-friends. The last few days taught him he does not want to be alone in this place. Who'd have thought prison is easier to handle when you don't have to do it on your own. 

He'll make it through these six days, hell, he'll come out stronger than he went in. He'll bend, but no way is he going to break. And he won't make the same mistakes again. If only he had a piece of paper he could retrace his steps and figure out how he got here. Maybe it doesn't matter, now that he's here with nothing but time he may as well make the best of it.

He starts with push-ups, which in retrospect is a fucking stupid idea. He can't remember the last time he went for a run, but yeah, let's go for the full on work out right away. Never mind that his hands are bandaged up and his knuckles sting. He has to admit defeat when his arms refuse to hold him any longer, and he only just manages to turn his head sideways and avoid smacking his face into the concrete. He stays on his front, wincing at the hard floor digging into his bones. Maybe it'd be better to slow down. He starts stretching, and doing push ups against the wall, running and jumping in place until sweat runs down his back and the side of his face and he's gasping for air. Good. There's not really a need to get bigger, he's always been in good shape, but maintaining that seems more important now.

Dinner arrives just in time and he wolves it down without tasting much of it. He's starting to feel like he'll be alright, that being here for a week won't do him in. He lulls himself into a false sense of security, seducing his mind with the notion that everything is alright and he's safe. That is exactly where he goes wrong. Right after finishing dinner, he stretches out on his mattress and the sleepiness washes over him instantly, comfortably. There's no fighting it, he's asleep mere seconds after he lies down.

This time, he does dream.

He's in a room with glass bottles stacked all the way to the ceiling, He can't read the labels, every one a different language, can't decipher a word, they don't even look like any language he's heard of. He walks through the room on tiptoes, somehow knowing that it's best if he goes unnoticed. But his footsteps are too heavy on the wooden floor, and if anybody is here they will hear the boards creaking under his weight. Suddenly, a girl appears in front of him. She sits cross-legged on the floor, her head hanging forward, her face completely obscured by curtains of blond hair. Jared stands in front of her awkwardly, not sure whether he should leave her alone or check to see she's okay. She makes the choice for him when she lifts her head slowly and Jared nearly screams when he sees just how not okay she is.

Her skin looks white and thin like wet paper stretched over bone. Her lips are cracked and her eyes are pale blue. Pale blue looking right through him, like a mirror but not. But it's not that, not even all of that taken together that has his stomach quiver and his neck sweat. 

It's the gaping hole in her forehead, blood slowly dripping out of it, down over her face like an artist's red paint on white canvas. She opens her mouth, and Jared wants to tell her to shut it again; whatever it is, he doesn't want to hear it. No sound comes out of his mouth, but one clear, cold word passes her lips, and he knows what she's going to say before the word is formed.

"Why?"

Jared shakes his head, half-convinced that he can shake her right out of his head. She doesn't. She keeps repeating the question as more blood gushes out of her head wound.

"No, no no no," Jared moans, covering his ears with his hands as best he can. The glass bottles around them start to fall off their shelves, splattering on the wooden floor and creating a thick razor-sharp blanket of rainbow colors. The screaming isn't in his head anymore. _He_ is screaming his throat hoarse, and it doesn't feel as if he'll ever stop. The bottles keep falling, and the girl's voice keeps getting louder and higher pitched until it's nothing more than a shrill squeak that still rattles him down to his bones.

He's pulled back, out of the room by hands grabbing his shoulders. The bottles vanish with the room but he still hears the girl's voice echo in his ears.

*

He's back in the isolation cell, a guard on each side of him holding him down on his mattress in a damn near bruising grip. He wants to ask them why they're holding him so tightly when his own kicking legs and twisting body come into view. _Oh._

He tries to relax himself, hoping that if he just calms down they will ease up on him. No such luck, if anything, they cling even harder when the doctor walks in, holding a syringe filled with a clear liquid in his right hand.

"It's alright, Jared, we're just gonna help you sleep."

No! Don't they get it? Sleep is the problem. The fear, the girl and the bottles can't catch him when he's awake so he really needs to stay-

"Hold him still," the doctor mutters, flicking the cap off the syringe, spraying some of the liquid in the air.

"You can't do this!" Jared twists and turns on his mattress, trying to push off the guards. "Please!"

"It'll make you feel better, Jared. It's only a mild sedative." The doctor moves closer, approaching him from the side he kneels next to the mattress. "Hold out his arm, please?"

His arm is twisted outward, the pressure on his shoulder increasing and he can kick and trash all he wants to, that needle is going into his vein. He stares with morbid fascination as the skin of his forearm is punctured by the sharp needle and the doctor starts pushing down the plunger, letting the clear liquid seep into his veins.

It's like warm water being pumped into his arm, spreading through him and holding him down much more gently than the guards' hands. They finally let go of him and he sinks deeper into the mattress, his eyelids dropping as his heartbeat slows down to a much more pleasant thump. He tries to reach out a hand, tell the doctor it was a bad idea and the dreams are in his head and now if he closes his eyes he's trapped in there with them. His arm is too heavy to lift, and his head rolls to the side.

The guards are still in the cell when Jared nods off, face squished against the mattress as he snores softly.

Whatever the doctor gave him, Jared was wrong about it. It does work. It keeps his mind blank, tabula rasa, an unblemished page in a notebook. No nightmares for him. He has no idea how long he's slept for when he wakes up. Disorientation hits hard and lingers with nothing recognizable around him. Nothing at all to give him an idea about where he is, or what's going on. His mouth is dry, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. Still in the hole. He pushes his mattress into the corner, then curls up on it, eyes hidden behind his hands. He's shaking all over but he's not cold. He's tired, but he knows he can't sleep anymore.

He's a web of contradictions and contrasts, just as he's always been. Such a clever guy, yet he got arrested. Such a life ahead of him, but he wanted some easy money. His momma's little boy, but he threw everything she ever taught him to the side. He loves her, still loves and misses her so much it physically hurts when he lingers on her memory. At the same time, he hates her for leaving in the first place. For caring so little. For completely overlooking a little boy that still needed her, still depended on her. But the pain she knew he would feel could never outweigh her own. Nothing could ever compare and nothing would ever be more important.. Jared doesn't doubt his momma's love for him, but he's not naive enough to believe it ever came close to how much he loves her. If she had, she wouldn't have left him, and if she had stayed, he would not be here today.

"M sorry," he mumbles into his knees, though the list of people he owes an apology is a lot longer than his momma. Sandy, the girl, Alex... Alex. He shakes his head and tries to disappear into the wall when an image of dark brown hair and blue eyes and a broad smile flashes before his eyes. He can't be sorry enough, and he can't apologize to any of them but Sandy. He could write her a letter, tell her she needs to get help, forget she ever met him, go back to school and pick her life back up.

They would have been better off if Jared hadn't walked into their lives and infected them. Maybe Alex was already halfway there, but Jared pushed him right off the cliff he had been tiptoeing around for years,. Because _that_ is just the kind of friend he is. When it comes right down to it, he doesn't care about anyone but himself. 

"You sure didn't care about me," a soft voice says, making Jared jump. It came from his left. He glances over, throat going dry when he finds the girl from his dream sitting on the other end of his mattress. "Oh shit, when did I fall asleep?" He whispers, squinting at the girl. She's real, not see-through. He must be dreaming.

"You're awake," the girl informs him, the pink skull necklace resting against her chest catching the light when she turns towards him. 

"Can't be." He can't look away from her necklace, hears the gun go off over and over in his head, his panicked scream, and the crinkling of bags of chips when she falls sideways against the display.

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he tells her, and, fuck, she looks even younger than Jared knows she is. "I'm so sorry."

"You didn't mean for it to happen but you know the risk you took, knew you couldn't control every part of the situation."

She's right, he knows she's right, it's what he's been telling himself for months. He was responsible, he can't deny that, it was his fault. Not Alex's.

"Why didn't you tell them that, man?"

Jared nearly falls off the mattress when his friend's voice fills the room, A quick turn of his head confirms that it's Alex sitting on the foot of his mattress, cross-legged and glaring at Jared with that same temper he's grown used to over the years. Alex was a hothead, something that was never made better by the pills he took, which only highlights how much Jared should have known better.

"I did." It's a flimsy defence, and he knows it. He admitted to the whole thing being his idea in the first place, which had almost been enough to make his paid-for-by-the-state lawyer walk. But he hadn't considered the consequences, not beyond 'I need money, this is how I will get it', which absolved him of a huge chunk of intent that proved to be Alex's downfall in the end.

"You were supposed to have my back, man, I don't fucking belong here."

"I'm sorry," he snaps, closing his eyes when tears burn hotly behind them, He rolls up on his side, hands clutched to his chest as he sobs quietly, repeating the same phrase over and over again.

Next time he opens his eyes, the lights are dimmed, and he has fully lost track of time. Can't remember how many nights have passed, probably not as many as his mind wants to trick him into believing. There's a tray of food next to his mattress, which triggers a vague sense of deja-vu. Not the first time he's woken up next to food. There's no sign of Alex or the girl, but he's shaky as fuck as he pulls the tray closer to him. It's an odd mix of rice, chicken and vegetables that tastes of plastic play-food, so he only takes a few spoonfuls. He sips the orange juice slowly, savoring the sweet taste on his tongue. The cell around him looks blurry, holes in the wall line up to form figures and the only thing that's missing is color.

Prison is a gray establishment., Which is ironic given just how not nuanced the justice system is; the very essence that defines the system, it does not recognize gray. "I'm gray," Jared mumbles around the straw in his mouth, Eventually, sitting up proves too much of a task and he falls asleep again, too exhausted to dream, too empty to think.

*

He's floating in and out of consciousness, with every wakeful moment bringing more disorientation. He doesn't see anyone, no guards, but the girl and Alex keep coming back to talk to him. Sometimes he thinks he sees Sandy too, or hears her voice, her laughter. Even though they're all angry with him for a variety of reasons that can be grouped under the same label of 'Jared fucked up my life', they're still company. They're the only company he has, and sometimes it seems they're the only company he will ever have again. He never asks them to leave, and it has less to do with him thinking it's futile anyway, and more to do with being worried they may actually leave and he'll be alone again. Alone is bad, alone is not what he wants, and it has to have been a week now right?

He just wants to get out of this hole, away from every last ghost of his past that won't let up on haunting him and making him suffer the way they suffered because of him. It doesn't matter how much he apologizes, the words that he needs to say, the words they need to hear, simply haven't been invented yet. Maybe he'll think of them someday.

He wakes up to dimmed lights, and a guard standing over him with a pile of clothes in one hand. Hope surges in his chest when he recognizes the clothes, and he looks to the guard to confirm his suspicions.

"Time to go home, Padalecki," the guard announces, unceremoniously dropping the clothes on Jared's mattress. He made it through the week. That's the only thing his mind can focus on as he clumsily puts his clothes on as quickly as he can, afraid the guard will change his mind if he doesn't move quickly enough. Feels fucking odd on his skin after a whole week of being naked, but it makes him feel a lot more human. Not quite like himself yet but 'human' is a huge step in the right direction. 

After his hands are cuffed, he follows the guard out of the cell on shaky legs, not looking back once as he quietly promises himself that was the first and last time he'll ever see that cell. He's almost bouncing along, half-scared but also excited to be among people again. They seem to be heading in the direction of C-Wing, Jared recognizes this particular sequence of locked doors and fences.

"Where are we going? Sir?"

The guard looks at him over his shoulder, eyes amused. "Back to C-Wing."

"But Marcus-"

"Has been moved to a different wing," the guard interrupts him. "After last week, several prisoners came forward with information about what happened in your cell that night."

Jared's eyes widen, and his steps slow down for a moment as he processes that information.

"You still went too far, so we left you in the hole, but there's no longer a place for Marcus in C-Wing."

A C-Wing with no Marcus? Jared can't suppress the smile that twitches on his face. This is hands down the best present he's had in a very long time. No more Marcus, and maybe Rich and Misha don't hate him if they told the guards what happened. Maybe not everything is lost just yet.

From how it's starting to get a little dark outside, Jared guesses it's probably just after dinner time. Everyone will already be locked in for the night. He's sleepy as hell, but the thought of food makes his stomach rumble. 

The guard leads him into C-Wing, but instead of being taken to one of the cell blocks he's led through to the canteen where a lonely tray of food is waiting for him. The guard uncuffs him and nods at the food. The 'dig in' goes without saying, but Jared doesn't waste any time.

He sits down in front of the tray and eats as if he hasn't eaten in days. Hell, for all he knows he's skipped more meals than he started eating. It's pasta with a runny sauce of spinach and bacon, but it may as well be a five course meal from a swanky restaurant. He eats until his plate is empty, then munches down the banana and gulps the apple juice. The guard who sat down across from him with a magazine smirks not unkindly.

"Glad you enjoyed that. Now, before we go back, I need to explain some things to you."

"Uh-huh."

"You're in the same block of cells but with a new cell mate. As for work, we figured something that demands concentration will keep you out of trouble so we're gonna start you on probation in the kitchen."

Damn. After the horror stories he's heard from other prisoners he knows he's damn lucky to get a shot at the kitchen.

"You pull a stunt like last week again, it will not be tolerated. Is that clear?"

Jared nods quickly, happy to agree to whatever anyone asks of him. It seems wrong that good things happen to him when he's fucked up everything. He's not about to question it. Kindness does not need a reason is what his momma used to say.

"Alright then, lets go." They walk back to the cell block, and Jared allows the familiarity of his surroundings to comfort him, even as he curses himself for feeling like he's going home. 

Nobody takes much notice of him coming back, which is a sharp contrast to his arrival last week. New meat must be a lot more exciting than old meat returning. They stop in front of a cell that's only a few further down from his previous one. He looks to his left, and sure enough, there are Rich and Misha standing behind the bars of their cell, now directly opposite his. He smiles at them, but they don't return it. His stomach clenches but they don't seem angry with him. If anything, they look worried.

The bars of his cell slide open. "Ackles? Meet your new cellie, Padalecki."

A light brown head of hair lifts from the pillow on the bottom bunk. Green eyes glance in his direction briefly, but that's all the recognition he gets. Lonely library guy. Jared sends a silent prayer of gratitude to whomever is listening. Talk about an improvement.

"Now you boys be nice to each other, y'hear?" 

Jared steps inside, and the bars slide shut behind him. He looks down at the shape on the bottom bunk, but the guy shows no indication of wanting to engage in any 'hey, we're gonna be sharing a shoe box until infinity, keep your toothbrush away from mine' conversation. Perfect.

He lifts himself up on the top bunk and is pleasantly surprised to find his clothes and his things neatly stacked on the shelf over his head. Maybe...

He reaches under his pillow, and sure enough, his fingers brush against his plastic bag of wine gums. He pulls out a duck and pops it into his mouth, sucking on the apple-flavored sweet as he settles under the covers. They feel amazing, but nothing compared to the pillow under his head. A tiny bit of heaven found in a cupboard-sized prison cell. It's that thought that finally lulls him to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Candygramme for an awesome job beta-ing! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Also thanks to everyone who's reading this, I'm amazed and happy that people are enjoying it after I spent ten years thinking I would never finish it, let alone post it anywhere :)

Being woken up by a loud buzzer at half past six when the last time he's had to set an alarm was in high school should suck. To Jared, it means waking up in a place that is not the hole, a place where his cellmate hasn't tried to kill him overnight, and where he's starting a new job today working with two people he likes. Things could suck a whole hell of a lot more. He's out of his bunk and on his way to the showers before his cellie has so much as raised his head from the pillow, and as he's standing under the lukewarm spray minutes later he wonders if that constitutes bad manners. Whatever, he'll fix it later. Not as if Ackles had had any interest in him last night.

He doesn't see Rich or Misha in the showers, but he figures they're probably busy making breakfast. Which is his new job now, but no one came to wake him up earlier than everyone else. Feeling as if he's already behind on his first day, he walks into the canteen quickly to find inmates have started lining up for their breakfast. He spots Misha behind the counter, who catches his eye and waves him over.

Misha's hair is pulled back from his face, held in place by a dark blue bandana. When Jared steps behind the counter, Misha looks him up and down subtly before handing him a tray of breakfast.

"Good to see you back, Jared."

"Good to be back." Jared takes the tray from his hands. "Shouldn't I be helping you guys?"

Misha shrugs and points behind him to a chair at one of the kitchen counters. "Eat. And... watch and learn. Or something."

Jared can do that. He's just sat down to dig into his breakfast when Rich comes up next to him, grinning at him widely. "Nemo my man, look at you. Fresh outta the hole and not a scratch on you."

Jared snorts, well aware of the visible cuts on his knuckles that have only just started to heal. Nevermind the scratches that don't show on his skin.

"Don't worry about that." Rich waves a hand dismissively. "I promise they don't take away from your inherent beauty."

"Fuck off," Jared smiles, pretending to throw his orange at Rich.

Rich's face suddenly turns serious as he leans in, hands braced on the counter. "We need to have a little talk later, okay?"

Jared nods, worry curling in his stomach even though Rich doesn't look as if he wants to hurt Jared. He needs to let go of the assumption that everyone is out to get him, just waiting for the right opportunity to turn on him. Thinking like that is what got him in this mess in the first place. Naivety isn't the key either, but there has to be some socially acceptable safe middle ground.

"Good boy," Rich pats him on the head, then joins Misha at the service counter.

The 'watch' part of 'watch and learn' turns out to be a lot more entertaining than he thought it would be. The two of them could not be more different. Misha doesn't even look up at most prisoners, focused on putting bowls of cereal and porridge on people's trays. He greets the occasional inmate but they're few and far inbetween.

Rich on the other hand makes conversation with every one of them, about the most random things, and even if he's ignored or mumbled at a lot of the time, every now and then one of them responds. At least until the rest of the line get inpatient. Rich has just finished discussing the weekend's baseball scores with a dark-haired inmate with glasses when Jared notices the next person in line is his new cellie.

The change in both Misha and Rich is clear. It's as if someone is slowly sucking the air out of the room, creating thick clouds of tension. Rich and Misha stand completely straight, hands moving on automatic, but from where Jared is sitting he can see both pairs of eyes watching Ackles closely.

Jared watches as well, wondering what it is that they see. He didn't get a good look last night, but now he almost finds himself gaping. The guy looks like something out of a magazine. Light brown hair short on the sides, longer in the front, soft looking strands falling over his forehead. His eyes seem greener than should be humanly possible though they have a sharp, piercing edge to them like broken glass. His lips form a straight line in his slightly tanned face, skin of his neck stretching down to the hem of a light gray hoodie. 

He's staring, he knows he's staring but more than that he knows it's not a calculating stare like Rich and Misha are giving him. Ackles must feel it because his eyes drift to the side and land on Jared. There's not even a flicker of recognition there, no response at all, just suffocating eye contact that soon becomes too much and has Jared look away. He finishes his breakfast without looking up again, trying to make sense of what just happened. Maybe it's more how Rich and Misha acted than anything Ackles did himself. Maybe.

With all inmates served, Rich and Misha join him at the kitchen counter with their coffee. The other guys serving or cooking join the other prisoners at the tables in the canteen.

"So Nemo," Rich starts, slurping his coffee which earns him an eye roll from Misha. "How's life?"

"Good?" It doesn't seem like Rich to beat around the bush; it throws Jared off a little. "Thank you guys for telling the guards what happened with Marcus."

"Don't worry about it," Misha says, wrapping his hands around his steaming cup. "Sorry we didn't manage to get their attention sooner."

Rich hums in agreement, "You did a real number on Marcus, Nemo, well done."

Jared winces involuntarily at the mention of his now ex-cellmate. The words said to him at the infirmary that night drift back to him on a cloud of confusion. "I nearly killed him."

Rich shrugs, seemingly unperturbed by that information. "Nearly doesn't count. If it did, you'd be on death row now."

Thanks for the pep talk, please stop now.

"So about your new cellie..." Rich drifts off, peering into his coffee as if his next words are hiding in the murky hot water. "I guess compared to Marcus he seems like Santa Claus himself."

Not quite the way Jared would've put it, but that's just semantics.

"Thing is, he's not... he's, he's a..." Rich frowns, glances at Misha for some input.

"He's dangerous," Misha supplies, getting a nod from Rich. "He's, they say 'it's always the quiet ones', he's the poster boy for that."

"Why?" Weird? Yes, he can see that. Dangerous? "He doesn't seem dangerous," Jared mumbles," he barely even looked at me when the guard dropped me off last night."

"Exactly!" Rich exclaims, pointing at Jared, "That's exactly it. It's an act. Rest assured, Nemo, he found out all there is to know about you before you even set foot in that cell."

"How? We're in prison."

"He has ways," Rich says, voice lowered to a volume reserved for Big Plans and Bigger Conspiracies. It almost makes Jared want to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, yet somehow he doesn't think that would go over well. "So, what, I'm worse off than I was with Marcus?"

"I don't know, I can't decide."

"That's not really helpful."

"We're not trying to scare you," Misha says, "just warn you. Where Jensen Ackles is around, accidents happen."

"Accidents?" That sounds bad. Like... thriller-movie serial killer bad.

Misha hums. "People get stuck under the weight bars, or accidentally fall into the laundry driers. Sometimes they get food poisoning or just start spitting blood suddenly."

"How d'you know it's got anything to do with him?"

"It's always people that have pissed him off somehow." Misha looks away, eyes searching the group of inmates eating breakfast. "You've seen him, new cons, stupid cons, they come in here and decide they want a piece of that."

Jared doesn't miss the bitter edge to Misha's voice, but he can't figure out why it's there. "And then they die?"

"Not always," Rich says, blowing on his hot coffee. "Sometimes they just get maimed."

"Not helping," Misha mutters. He gives Jared an encouraging smile. "Just don't get in his way, and you'll be fine."

"And don't lust after his ass." Rich smirks, ducking his head when Misha glares at him.

"I... wouldn't," Jared stammers, "why would I-"

"Cause this is prison, Nemo." Rich claps him on the shoulder. "A lot of things are more acceptable in here than in the big bad world."

"I'm not gay." He's not. Sure, he can appreciate Jensen Ackles is a good looking guy, but that doesn't mean Jared wants to get naked with him.

Yet again, Rich proves to be a talented mind reader when he winks at Jared. "Fifteen years left on your ticket, Nemo. You'll change your mind somewhere down the line."

"Did you?" Jared challenges, pinning Rich with his eyes, but Rich's smile stays exactly the same. 

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Yes, he would, that's why he asked. 

Trays are slowly being returned as prisoners start to leave the canteen to go to work. A guard shows up and tells Jared to follow Rich's lead and get a 'feel' for the kitchen, whatever that means. Rich has him loading the big dish washer in the back of the kitchen and separating the plastic from leftover food for recycling purposes. It's a dull job, and he doesn't talk to Rich or Misha much, because they're on the other side of the kitchen, preparing lunch with other inmates. He looks over at them every now and then though, taking note of the hushed conversations and lingering touches, He hadn't seen the latter before, but it's plain to see they feel at ease in the kitchen. More at ease than anywhere else Jared's seen them, apart from their cell. 

Now he sees how Rich's fingers brush lightly over Misha's when he hands him an oven tray. He sees Misha lean into Rich when he reaches past him for the cooking oil - Sunflower, olive oil has no place in prison. It's those little details, but at the same time it's the ease with which they move around each other that speaks of months, maybe years of sharing a cramped prison cell with each other. It's a level of intimacy so out of place, like the sound of birds singing in the middle of the night. Still, he wonders about what exactly the nature of their intimacy is. Blame it on boredom, and perhaps, just a bit of intrigue. 

Seven days of complete isolation from human contact has left its cracks. He's fairly certain that it's not noticeable to anyone else, not unless they looked very closely but even then it could be written off to simply being here. He's never noticed how loud people are. Voices upon voices, mixing and mingling, making his head throb as he tries to tune them out. 

Has it always been like this?

*

"Jared?"

Jared looks up from where he's just put the last tray in the dish washer to find a friendly looking guy behind him. He's tall, but not as tall as Jared, normal build, with dark curly hair and dark blue eyes that smile.

"Yes?" He wipes his hands on a kitchen towel and leans against the counter.

"Hi. Tom, nice to meet you." Tom holds out a hand and Jared shakes it dutifully, all the while thinking it's an odd level of politeness that feels like something from a different world that he's no longer a part of. 

"You too."

"Rich told me to show you how to turn these things on," Tom nods at the washers. "It's not wildly exciting or nothing. Beats mopping floors or scrubbing toilets though."

"I'll bet." Jared watches closely as Tom shows him where to put the cleaning liquid and which buttons to press. "You been here long?"

"Long enough," Tom smirks. "But not for much longer I hope. I'm up for parole soon." 

Parole. That magical word that can cut a sentence in half or better. It seems like a distant dream, something he shouldn't pin his hopes on. "Best of luck with that."

"Thanks, man." Tom presses the start button. When the machine hums to life he smiles triumphantly. "You gotta be careful with the amount of liquid. One time, I put way too much and the whole kitchen overflowed with suds. I thought Rich was going to murder me."

Jared pushes down the mental image of Rich yelling in a kitchen full of suds, to stop himself from snorting. "I can imagine."

"Dude takes his kitchen far too seriously. Would you believe he used to be a martial arts teacher? He taught that really lethal thing, what's it called?"

Jared shakes his head. He knows about as much about martial arts as he knows about most sports; not a whole hell of a lot.

"Krav Maga," Tom says with a snap of his fingers. "Most people turn violent by being in prison, but no, Mr Violence himself turns domestic."

Interesting. That would explain why no one seems to mess with Rich, and perhaps by extension, Misha. Maybe Rich can teach him a thing or two.

"Anyway, good to meet you, man. I gotta get back to chopping shit up. I'll see you around."

Jared remains at the counter, wondering what he should do next. So far, his impression of the kitchen is that it is a well-oiled machine, and he's not entirely sure yet where and how he'll fit in. 

Rich walks up to him and sets a cup of coffee next to him on the counter. "How goes the dish-washing?"

"They're all in there getting clean." Jared takes a small sip of coffee, finding that he's almost getting used to the chalky taste. 

"Wanna gimme a hand with getting the lasagna in the oven?" Rich wiggles his eyebrows.

Jared nods and follows Rich to the other end of the kitchen. Misha is working quietly, adding layers of lasagna to the oven trays scattered around them. It's completely silent apart from the rhythmic chopping of Tom and the hum of the dish washer.

_Tick-tock, tick-tock._

Jared freezes in his tracks, the sound echoing in his head too loudly. His eyes slip shut, and his ears focus on the cheap plastic clock on the wall ticking time away. A gunshot sounds, loud enough to rattle his teeth, and bright red drops land on the clock, distorting its numbers as they start to drip down.

Jared gasps, coughs, fights to get air in his lungs, but there's a vice squeezing tight around his chest, making it impossible to draw in breaths.

"Jared? Jared!" 

Someone grabs his shoulder and Jared snaps out of it, blinking rapidly to wipe the lingering images from his retinas. When the room changes back, Misha is in front of him, his hand like a vice on Jared's shoulder.

"I'm... sorry," he forces out, looking around the kitchen to make sure the blond girl isn't there. 

"Whoa, Nemo, what the fuck just happened?" Rich leans in over Misha, eyes studying him. "It was like you just left, man, did you have a seizure?"

"He didn't have a fucking seizure, you moron," Misha tells him, frowning at Jared as if he's just figured something out. "Go finish the lasagna or something. Let me talk to Jared."

Rich doesn't seem impressed, but he does as Misha says and leaves them to it. 

"You need to see the shrink," Misha tells him solemnly, face serious. No beating around the bush then, great.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jared mutters under his breath, staring at a spot on the wall. 

Misha snorts, but when he speaks there's not even a trace of humor in his voice. "That was the second time you blanked on me."

"Moving to prison is a stressful experience."

"This isn't stress," Misha tilts his head at Jared, eyes searching for something. "You've got full blown PTSD."

"Thank you, Doctor Collins," Jared sneers, "and no I don't." 

"How're those nightmares working out for you?" Misha says, uncharacteristically harsh, making Jared take an involuntary step back.

"The fuck? How does everyone in this place know stuff about me?"

Misha shrugs it off, uninterested in anything but the point he's trying to make. "Whatever, Jared, you're gonna get yourself killed. Or kill someone else and end up on death row. Same difference."

"Stop talking like you know me," Jared spits, anger hot and burning to the surface.

"I'm not," Misha says, blue eyes flaring up, "But I know what the fuck I'm talking about." His voice does an odd little squeaky thing on the last word, makes Jared swallow down his response. Instead, he narrows his eyes at Misha. 

"You do." And he knows it's true, even if he has no idea what's haunting Misha. It's the kind of thing he's uncomfortable guessing at, because the consequences of him being wrong will never be anything but horrible.

It's Misha's turn to avoid his eyes, but Jared lets him have that one. Not before making his own point though. "How are your appointments with the head doctor working out?"

Misha's eyes find his, and Jared feels pinned down by their coldness, anger tightening his features. "Go fuck yourself."

He's walked off before Jared can open his mouth to apologize. He's not sure if he wants to apologize, or what he would be apologizing for. He starts scrubbing the kitchen counters in hopes of finding some mindless distraction. It's useless, he's going over and over his talk with Misha, trying to interpret what had been said. Part of him just wants to ask outright, because fuck, he's curious. Apparently even not asking is enough to cut through Misha though, if the way he's doing something in the far corner of the kitchen, ignoring everyone else is anything to go by.

"Nemo, what the everliving fuck?"

He's startled out of his thoughts by a wet dish cloth hitting him in the side of his head. When he looks up, Rich is standing a few feet away from him, looking as if he would quite like to punch Jared. Rich may be shorter, but he's got a nice pair of arms on him that Jared does not want to be on the receiving end of. Plus, apparently, more than a few ways of inflicting pain. "I... sorry?"

"Listen up, Nemo, and pay attention, 'cause I don't like to repeat myself." Rich walks closer and grabs Jared by the back of his neck to pull him down to Rich's height. Hazel eyes bore into his own, all good humor and fun drained out of them, replaced with a fierce hint of protectiveness. "You don't. Fuck. With Misha. Got me?"

Jared's eyes widen to saucers. "Wha-?"

Rich rolls his eyes. "Leave him the fuck alone if you're gonna play head games, 'cause you won't like where it ends."

"Where does it end?" He's always talked too much for his own good.

"With me." The threat is clear in Rich's voice, so Jared holds up a hand in apology.

"Sorry." Really, he was already sorry before, but even more so now.

Rich nods, hand sliding to the side to pat Jared on the shoulder. "Good boy, Nemo, now help me dish out these poor bastards' lunches."

And that's all that's going to be said about it then. Lunch passes quickly, with Jared following Rich's example, minus the running commentary. He keeps his head down as he hands out lunches, only looking up when Rich's babbling stops. Without looking, he knows who's in front of them, and sure enough, a quick glance confirms it's Jensen Ackles.

"Hi," Jared says, not quite thinking first, but it's his cellmate, being nice is not a bad plan.

Ackles looks at him, amusement playing around his lips as he holds Jared's gaze.

Jared can't look away. It's as if he's hypnotized.

The silence stretches between them, growing uncomfortable, he knows this, but he can't stop, can't look away. He feels the tension radiating off of Rich next to him, but he's frozen in place.

It's Ackles who eventually breaks the silence. "Are you gonna give me my food, or make me do a trick for it first?" 

His voice is soft, low, damn near melodic, and Jared finally focuses on what he's doing. "Yes, food." He looks down at the wrapped sandwiches. "Meat or veg?"

Ackles licks his lips, immediately drawing Jared's eyes down to the action. "Veg."

Jared puts the correct sandwiches on his tray, half expecting them to get thrown back in his face. Ackles narrows his eyes a little but smiles. "Thank you." He moves further down the line to collect his fruit, and Jared breathes out a sigh of relief.

"You are a fucking moron." Rich informs him, ignoring an inmate's protest when he puts a pack of sandwiches on his tray without looking.

"What did I do now?" He just can't fucking win today, not with anyone.

"You stared, then you stared, and then you stared some more, and then he _smiled,_ and you're a fucking moron."

"Thanks so much for clearing that up."

"No need to get pissy at me, I'm not the one who will be locked in a cell with him tonight."

The way Rich says it sounds more as if Jared has an appointment with the firing squad. Which clearly means he's exaggerating. No way is Ackles worse than Marcus, no matter what Rich or Misha says. And even if Ackles would try something, it shouldn't be that difficult to overpower him. It'll be fine, he'll be fine.

He can finally start settling in properly and adjust to his new life. Or something like that.

*

The rest of the afternoon is spent making dinner, with Misha silent and lost in his own head, and Rich overcompensating by playing the class clown.

"Hey Nemo?" Why don't sheep shrink when it rains? How do you take rectangular pictures through a round hole?"

"Really?" Jared shakes his head, watching the lasagna in the oven.

"How did Burger King get the Dairy Queen pregnant? He forgot to wrap his whopper. What do you call a gay dinosaur? A mega-saur-ass."

Jared snorts despite himself. "Are you just permanently stuck in the mind of a high school kid?"

"It's a good place to be!" Rich's eyes follow Misha across the kitchen. "Hey Mish? What did the penis say to the condom?"

Misha doesn't respond, but Jared swears he sees a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Cover me, I'm going in!" Rich cracks up, and Misha looks up from the oven trays in front of him.

"Ass," he mutters fondly as the tension in his shoulders eases a little.

"Ass, pussy, whatever man, it's all about protection," Rich snickers, turning to Jared. "You want some condoms, Nemo?"

"Why would I want condoms?"

"Aha!" Rich points at him with an oven mitt-covered hand. "That's right. Nemo is straight. All the way." He waves his hand in the air.

"I am," Jared mutters. All the way, that's right.

"Poor little Nemo's gonna be deprived, man. That's no way to treat your dick."

"My dick will be fine, thank you."

"You don't know that. One day it'll just fall off and you'll just... you'll be a woman without tits."

"Fuck off," he grumbles, willing the lasagna to cook quicker. One day at work, but he's genuinely tired after having been on his feet all day. Suddenly, being locked in his cell for the night and allowed to sleep through until morning sounds very appealing. Even if Ackles is going to be there. 

They eat quickly before the other inmates come in, then two hours after a quick clean up of the kitchen, Jared's on his way back to his cell. The other inmates have already been locked up for the night. It's just him, and Misha and Rich on the ground floor of his cell block, the rest of the kitchen staff scattered over the top tier. The guard stops at Rich and Misha's cell to let them in first.

"Early day tomorrow, Nemo," Rich winks. "Best get some sleep."

"I will. G'night." Jared waits for the guard to lock them into their cell before doing the same for Jared. Ackles is lying on his bottom bunk, stretched out with a book in his hand. He doesn't look up when the guard unlocks the cell, nothing about him giving away that he's aware of Jared stepping inside. The bars slide shut behind him, and Jared stops to look at Ackles, long legs touching his toes to the frame, just a t-shirt instead of the hoodie he had on earlier in the day. They haven't really been introduced. Jared is going to change that, get off on the right foot.

"Hi," he says, offering a half-wave and immediately feeling ridiculous for waving at someone who's three feet away from him and clearly couldn't care less about what he's saying. "I'm Jared."

"I know," Ackles replies without looking up.

Jared shifts awkwardly. "Not gonna introduce yourself?"

"Why?" He finally looks up, eyebrow arched in question. "You already know my name, I know yours. What's the point?"

"It's the polite thing to do?"

Ackles stares at him for a moment before he sets his book aside and gets up off his bunk. He's shorter than Jared, but barely. Two quick steps forward have Jared stepping back against the bars. He shakes his head slowly, wondering how he consistently manages to piss people off without even trying. But Ackles's hand doesn't pull back to smack him, instead, he holds his hand out for Jared to take.

Jared shakes it hesitantly, surprised at the coldness seeping into his skin. It's hot and humid in here, how can he be cold?

"Jensen Ackles. Pleased to meet you," Jensen says, mockery clear in his slick southern drawl that sizzles off Jared like cold rain on a hot stove. "You got a name, boy?" Jensen is still shaking his hand, grip tight around Jared's.

"Jared Padalecki." He was just trying to be nice, but Jensen is making it out to be ridiculous and the joke is on Jared.

"Marvelous. You wanna let me get back to reading now, or should we deepen our bonding experience?" Jensen's hand isn't moving anymore, but he isn't letting go of Jared's hand either. "We could swap childhood memories and bemoan the loss of our beloved pets, while we hold each other tight?"

Jared grits his teeth, only just resisting the urge to crush every bone in Jensen's hand. "Never fucking mind." He pulls his hand out of Jensen's grip and walks past him to the toilet. It's unnerving as fuck to piss when he can feel Jensen's eyes on him. Worse than that, it's not even subtle glancing; when Jared flushes the toilet and turns around, Jensen is observing him unabashedly, leaning casually against the wall.

"Didn't you have a fucking book to read?"

"I do," Jensen says, but he stays exactly where he is, even when Jared is brushing his teeth and finally climbs into his bunk.

Jared settles on his side, intent to read until lights out, his back to Jensen. He's aware that Jensen hasn't moved a muscle. It makes it impossible to concentrate on his book, he has to read the same sentence seven times and still has no clue what it says. He's got half a mind to snap at Jensen, tell him to go to fucking bed already, but he's got to 'live' with Jensen a little longer than tonight. A whole hell of a lot longer probably. 'What're you in for?' would definitely break Jensen out of this, but then it may also end up breaking Jared's nose, and he's seen quite enough of the infirmary. There's a way around it, though.

"How much time've you got left?" He asks, staying as he is, missing Jensen's response.

"Got all the time in the world, don't you worry about that."

Not an answer, and a fucking weird thing to say on top of that. Maybe Rich and Misha weren't entirely wrong in telling him to watch out for his new cellie. It'd be nice to catch a break for a change.

Eventually, Jared hears Jensen settle back on his own bunk, pages turning not long after. The lights are turned off, and Jared is relieved, exhaustion settling deep into his bones, making it damn near impossible to stay awake.

He doesn't know what time he nods off but thirty minutes after he falls asleep there's a guard in the cell telling him to get up because it's time for work. It can't be right. He slides off his bunk, not even sparing Ackles a glance before he's out of the cell. 

So. Fucking. Tired.

He rubs the sleep from his eyes, breathing quietly in the silence of his cell block. Silent, apart from a noise coming from one of the last cells before the showers on the right. His eyes are drawn to the sound, but once he realizes what he's looking at he really wishes he hadn't. It's the dark-haired guy that was on the bus with him, but now he's kneeling in front of the lower bunk in the cell, naked from the waist down while an older con reminiscent of Monster fucks him from behind.

Jared's eyes widen and his breath catches in his throat. He looks at the guard, not believing that he hasn't noticed what's going on a few feet away from him.

"Sir?" He starts, rushing to catch up. "Did you-"

"Don't worry about it, Padalecki," the guard grunts, "nothing non-consensual going on in there. Keep moving."

No way. This guard clearly has no fucking clue what he's talking about. Or he does but chooses to pretend he doesn't, which is even worse.

*

His thoughts are still running rampant as he undresses himself and pads over to the showers. The water is already running, but Jared knows no one but Misha and Rich will be there right now.

"Morning Nemo!" Rich waves, lifting one hand from where he was shampooing his hair. "Good to see you didn't get killed in your sleep."

Jared nods hello and picks a shower head across from them. Even with all this empty space, Rich and Misha's showers are next to each other. Seeking proximity when it isn't needed. Unless they see _him_ as a threat. Jared doubts they see him as a threat. He may be a bit on the non-subtle side sometimes, but they have to know he doesn't have it in for them.

"Hey, did they move that guy who came in same day as me?"

"Mitchell?"

"How the hell would I know?" And how the fuck does Rich know everything about everyone?

"Medium built, medium height... medium everything really," Rich snickers, and Jared spins around to look at him.

"When did you..."

Rich rolls his eyes before glancing down below Jared's waist pointedly.

Oh. Right. He turns back around and lets the lukewarm water run over him. Rich may know a lot about what goes on between these walls, but Jared has his own little tidbit he can share. "He's fucking his cellie. Guard said it was consensual." He snorts, shaking his head. "I doubt it. Poor bastard."

Silence after that, nothing but the sound of water splattering on the tiled floor surrounding them. It's Rich who speaks eventually.

"Why d'you doubt it, Nemo?"

"Who'd wanna fuck anyone in a place like this?" Jared shrugs, rubbing soap into his skin. "Same time, he seemed pretty tough. Not like he'd let someone fuck him to stay safe or something." There's shuffling behind him, but Jared is too distracted to attach any meaning to it.

"You've figured all this out after a few hours on a bus with him?"

Jared spins back around at the sharpness in Rich's words and finds Misha has disappeared. "Where-"

"What constitutes a guy that takes it up the ass then?" Rich continues. "Tell me, does it have to be a small, scrawny one? A pretty one? A young one?"

"Hey, I didn't mean anything by it. He just doesn't seem the type."

"But you don't know what the 'type' is, do you, Nemo?" Rich flicks his shower off but stays where he is for a moment longer. Wet hair dripping into his eyes, but he doesn't seem to notice. "Do I seem the type?"

"What? No!" Dangerous territory now, but he's too far in. No way will Rich let him back out now.

"Why not?"

"Can we stop talking about this now?"

"I'm not the one who brought it up." Rich makes to exit the showers, but before he's out the door he looks over his shoulder. "I give you three months, Nemo. You'll either be bending over for Ackles, or you'll be dead."

He's gone before Jared can reply. Before Jared can tell him he's wrong. That won't happen. Not to him. Fuck Rich for thinking so little of him anyway.

He's half-convinced he's got something to feel guilty about when he walks into the kitchen a few minutes later, though what that is, is beyond him. As usual. With Misha's vanishing act and Rich's... remarks, it adds up to every other thought he's had about them, but he still doesn't have the whole picture. He's blurry on the specifics and making errors, like just now. 

Maybe Rich is fucking Misha to keep him safe. _Fuck no._ He just can't see Rich as the kind of person who would ask that of anyone. Not as currency. Then again, the two have more history than what Jared has seen so far. Who knows how whatever is going on between them got started. Other inmates leave them alone, both of them, yet they don't seem to be part of a bigger group. No protection by association. It's just them, with a few acquaintances here and there. It doesn't make much sense, but at least he's getting used to feeling that way.

"Nemo? Start packing stuff in plastic containers."

Breakfast comes and goes, with Jared taking Misha's place next to Rich to serve food. Rich doesn't bring their little discussion in the showers up again, acting normal instead. Normal with a hint of reservation. He finds Misha a few hours later in the storage cupboard he has to get some extra trays from. Misha's sitting on the floor, surrounded by lists of paper, clipboard propped on his knee as he scribbles on it.

"Hey," Jared says, looking down at Misha, then at the shelves for the trays.

"Hi," Misha responds, not looking up from what he's doing.

Jared gets the trays but stalls, need to fix what he did wrong stronger than his need to ignore it until it goes away. "Hey Misha?"

"Mm-hm."

"If I said something wrong, I'm sorry. I've got a big mouth. I didn't mean to-"

Misha finally looks up at him, face blank, and his eyes not giving anything away. "Don't worry about it. You're fine."

No, he's really not, but it's clear Misha doesn't want to talk about it. Jared doesn't expect a heartfelt explanation of why Misha acted the way he did, but some minimal acknowledgment that yes, something happened but yes, it's okay now, would have been nice. "We're good then?"

Misha nods and goes back to his clipboard. "We're good."

And that's all that's said on the matter for the rest of the day. Misha gradually stops being quiet, but every time he thinks no one's looking his face relaxes, and the corners of his mouth pull down as if someone's attached strings to them and is tugging on them.

It's only after dinner, when they're cleaning up the kitchen that Misha voluntarily approaches him to help him clean the counters. "How're you liking the kitchen, Jared?"

He looks at Misha from the corner of his eye, but Misha is intent on scrubbing off a particularly persistent tomato sauce stain. "It's alright. Long day but it has its perks. Like not having to shower with a hundred other cons."

Misha nods and throws the dish rag on the counter. "You wanna step out for a smoke before bed?"

 _Fuck yes._ "Can we?" He eyes the guard that is sitting at a table in the canteen flicking through a magazine. Though the official job description is probably closer to 'making sure no one gets slice-happy with the kitchen knives and creates a bloodbath'.

"Yeah, it's fine." Misha takes the lead, rounding the kitchen counter and making his way to the guard. They exchange a few words that aren't loud enough for Jared to make out, but the guard nods, and Misha turns back to Jared with a small smile. "Let's go."

They step out into the yard, and it's still warm outside. The sun has started to set, casting long shadows on the ground. Jared reaches in the pocket of his sweats for his Marlboros and takes one out of the pack. What a glorious day when he received a notification that his money had come through, and he got to stand in line with the other inmates at the commissary. A little bit of autonomy goes a long way when so many things are out of his control. Misha hands him a lighter after he lights his own.

"I..." Misha starts, taking another drag before he continues. "I overreacted this morning."

Jared blows out the smoke, watches it drift away as he considers Misha's words. "I didn't think-"

"No. And don't. No way you could've known."

Jared's head spins at the unspoken admission lurking in those words. "You and Rich?"

"No. Never. He wouldn't." Misha looks at Jared with serious eyes, willing him to understand.

"I didn't think he would." Which is the truth. For all the jokes and mind games, Rich wouldn't do that. "I'm sorry," he mutters lamely, unsure of what else he could say to make it better.

"Don't be," Misha says, voice sharp as razors. "I don't need your fucking pity, I'm not some sad little girl that needs saving."

"I didn't-"

"Good," Misha nods, dragging on his cigarette as if it's an oxygen mask. "I'm fine, shit happens. Just..." He winces, eyes dropping to the ground. "There is no type, okay?"

Jared nods, feeling appropriately ashamed of himself. He hadn't really considered Misha to... be that guy. Didn't think he'd have to. Not because he wouldn't get that kind of attention, but because he seemed to be able to take care of himself just fine. As long as Rich was there, too. He wants to say more but at this rate, anything he says will be too much.

They finish their cigarettes in silence, but it's not the awkward, uncomfortable silence that's been hanging around them all day. At the risk of sounding somewhat dramatic, Jared would say it's an understanding silence. Back inside, Jared feels Rich's eyes on them, searching for something he clearly doesn't find, because he stays where he is, putting the last things away. The rest of the staff have already left. When the guard spots Jared and Misha he puts his magazine on the table and stands up. "Let's go boys, bed time."

They follow the guard out of the kitchen, back to their cell block. Jared says goodnight to Misha and Rich before he's locked into his cell. He looks across the corridor into Misha and Rich's cell for a moment then turns around.

"Hi honey, how was your day?" Jensen asks from his bunk, voice smooth as honey.

Jared rolls his eyes and walks past him to the sink. "Absolutely fucking perfect."

Jensen snorts, rolls on his side to look at Jared. "You've made some interesting friends in this place."

"What's that mean?"

"Speight and Collins. Did you read the right copy of How to make Friends and influence People? Cause I think you're doing it wrong."

Jared doesn't respond, brushes his teeth instead as he looks at himself in the mirror. He looks tired, worn out almost, and he could really do with a shave. Sandy used to hate it when he didn't shave. She never liked the chafing on her skin. Wouldn't even let him near her most times if he hadn't shaved.

"You coulda picked anyone. Someone with gang affiliation. Someone who's got some swing with the guards."

"Someone like you?" Jared picks up his razor and shaving cream and starts shaving. No need to look like a caveman just because he's in prison.

Jensen clicks his tongue. "I don't have friends."

"Just enemies then?"

"Got me a few of those, yeah." Jensen sounds amused, as if this conversation is endlessly entertaining to him. It's endlessly annoying to Jared, and he's beginning to regret making such a point of talking to Jensen. Careful what you wish for and all of that.

"You had to go and pick a drug-dealing nobody and his ninja boyfriend." Jensen shakes his head in disapproval. "Bigger fish in the sea."

"Do you have a point, or do you just enjoy hearing the sound of your own voice?"

"Why's it have to be one or the other?"

Jared finishes shaving in silence, eager just to get to bed and not listen to Jensen anymore. He turns around, ready to hop up on his bunk and call it a day, when his eyes land on Jensen. He's standing with his back to Jared in front of the bars, observing the cell block quietly. Jared didn't even hear him move off his bunk. He's stripped down to just his gray sweats, and Jared is treated to a long stretch of tan skin stretched tightly over muscle, every line in Jensen's back standing out as if someone drew them on him. Jared catches himself staring, tears his eyes away from Jensen to the floor and takes a step back. What the _hell_ is he doing?

Jensen turns around slowly and Jared looks up again, telling himself he may as well familiarize himself with what he will spend quite a bit of time in such close quarters with. His eyes drag over a slim waist and well-defined abs up his smooth chest to broad shoulders, and Jared swallows before meeting Jensen's eyes. They narrow at him, and for a moment Jared thinks he can see a flicker of something in the green. Something that makes Rich warn him, has Misha telling him to stay away. Something that has every other con in this place walking on egg shells around Jensen Ackles. Half a second, then it's gone, but it leaves Jared feeling as if he's just looked down the edge of a cliff and damn near lost his balance.

"Something you want?" Jensen asks, voice low and barely audible in a way some people - stupid people - may mistake for seduction. Jared's smarter than that, picks up on the implicit threat easily enough, and he would quite like to be anywhere but in his cell right now.

"My bed," he says, doing his best to sound sure of himself, and not let Jensen see how rattled he is. 

Jensen raises an eyebrow, and Jared quickly climbs into his bunk, He pulls off his hoodie and sweats without looking at Jensen, even though he can feel Jensen's eyes on him watching his every move. He stays silent for a long while, but he doesn't move from his spot.

"You don't know shit about your new best friends," Jensen says eventually.

"But you do?" Fuck him and his curiosity.

"I know what they're in for, and how long they've got to go. I know Speight damn near killed someone not six months ago and got another year added to his ticket. I know Collins got cornered on his first night back from a trip to the hole by four guys and only just made it out in one piece."

"They beat him up?" A flare of anger shoots through him at the idea of four cowards ganging up on Misha.

"Don't be an idiot. Four guys and frayed sanity with a nice ass. No one like that is lucky enough to walk away with a few blows."

Bile rises in Jared's throat when the implications of Jensen's words sink in, but he swallows it down. Four of them. Fresh out of the hole. The nausea stays with him and isn't helped by how much of an idiot he feels. Getting worked up over a book, a remark, when Misha...

"Didn't know that, did you?" Jensen nods as if Jared's just confirmed his suspicions. "He's from Boston, but he spent a lot of time in Texas, like you. He wanted to be a counselor once upon a time, but heroin got him a little... shall we say sidetracked."

"Are you a walking and talking encyclopedia or something?"

"I only know what I feel is important," Jensen shrugs, leaning against the wall in a way that has the waistband of his sweats slide down the sharp curve of his hipbone. Jared forces himself to look away and focus on what Jensen is saying instead, but he finds himself wishing Jensen hadn't told him anything at all. As curious as he was, he really could have done without knowing this. Especially because he's not supposed to know, and how can he act normally around Misha when he knows?

"I didn't ask you to tell me that. Why did you tell me that?" He stretches out on top of the sheets, suddenly not quite ready to go to bed yet.

"You didn't ask but you wanted to know."

"Fuck off," he mutters, carefully ignoring how very right Jensen is.

Jensen hums, just as the lights are turned off, and they're covered in darkness. It works well for shutting Jensen up, he goes to his bunk and doesn't say another word. For Jared, it does little more than leaving him alone with his thoughts. Thoughts he doesn't want to have, mental images that tie his stomach in knots and have him rubbing his eyes vigorously in hopes of making them go away. Somehow, he falls asleep, but Jensen's words follow him into his dreams like baby ducks following their mother, only less cute and more horrifying. 

In his dream, he hears Misha scream as Jared follows a trail of blood in the kitchen. He follows it into the storage cupboard and back out again, in figure-eights, and straight lines, and all the while the screams ring in his ears and bounce around his skull like tennis balls. When he finally follows the trail out of the kitchen back towards the cell block he comes face to face with Jensen. Covered in blood. It drips from his hair to the floor with a light pitter-patter that blood should never make. Jensen grins, baring blood-red teeth.

"Too late," he says, voice more a growl than anything, and Jared recoils, shaking his head violently as if that will make Jensen's words untrue.

*

His eyes open, and he's met with suffocating darkness. He gasps for air. His heart does jumping jacks in his throat, and his skin feels as if it's on fire.

"No," he whispers. Just a dream, not real, everything's fine. The images of his nightmare replay in his head slowly, no less horrible now that he's awake. They leave him with one thought he knows will keep him up for the rest of the night: was Jensen one of the four?

He wants to say no, but whatever kind of people knowledge he's ever prided himself on having has been overthrown completely since he set foot in this place. No one's safe. If Jensen was one of them it made even more sense for Misha and Rich to warn him. Plus Jensen had said Misha was a nice piece of ass. And he knew an awful lot of details about everything.

Jared closes his eyes and rubs both hands over his face. He could do with some water. He slips off his bunk quietly so as not to wake Jensen, and he doesn't look at him when his feet touch the floor. Creepy fucker would probably wake up instantly when he felt Jared's eyes on him. He pads over to the sink and holds a plastic cup under the running water. He sets it down next to him before splashing more water on his face. It wakes him up, which probably isn't a great idea in the middle of the night with a wake-up call mere hours away, but it shakes off the nightmare a little.

He drinks the water and puts the cup back next to the sink. Good thing he can just about see what he's doing with the few lights on in the cell block. He turns around slowly to get back in bed.

His breath catches in his throat when he sees Jensen.

He's lying on his bunk with his head by the bars, propped up on a pillow, one arm behind his head, the other on his bare stomach. But he's not asleep. He's quietly watching Jared move around, eyes glittering in the dark. It's creepy as fuck, like something out of a scary movie, where the main character doesn't know they're being watched. If the bars weren't locked he'd be running as fast as he could. But they are shut, and all he can really do is stand frozen where he is.

Jensen doesn't move a muscle, and Jared is beginning to think Jensen is actually dead and he's staring at a corpse. His chest is moving slowly, maybe not dead then. Maybe he is asleep.

"Too late," Jensen says, voice low, and Jared damn near jumps out of his skin. He jerks backwards, slamming his back against the little dividing wall painfully hard. It's a struggle for air before he can squeeze out any words.

"What did you say?"

Jensen frowns, breaking the inhuman marble mask, shows there's a person in there, and Jared relaxes a little.

"I said it's too late and you should sleep."

Did he? That's not what Jared heard. He must be out of it if he's hearing things. Wouldn't be the first time.

"Will you get to bed already? Some people do enjoy getting a night's sleep." 

Jared walks over to the bunks quickly, relieved when he can no longer feel Jensen's eyes on him. It takes ages for him to settle down enough, far enough away from rolling into a panic attack. Sleep is out of the question, though. His head is full of everything, it's like air traffic control, and he can't guide every thought in the right direction. Unfortunately, each one of them refuses to crash and leave him the fuck alone.

By the time a guard stops at his cell to 'wake him up' he hasn't shut his eyes for longer than three minutes. 

It's Dugas, which doesn't make it any better, but then it doesn't make it any worse. As Dugas walks him to the showers he gives Jared a once over.

"You having trouble sleeping?"

Jared shrugs, then shakes his head. What is Dugas gonna do about it?

"There's people here you can talk to. It ain't easy to settle in, and if you don't like Doctor Robin there are other people-"

"I'm fine," Jared interrupts him, "really. Thank you, but I'm fine."

He's first to the showers today, and he enjoys the few moments of being alone. As absolutely shit as his week in isolation was, now that he's out he's never alone. There's always someone right there, breathing down his neck. Even now, his moment of solitude doesn't last very long; Misha and Rich join him, and Jared doesn't have time to think of how to _be_ around Misha.

"Mornin' Nemo, how they hangin'?"

Jared opens his mouth, then closes it, looks from Rich to Misha and back to Rich and then away. "Morning," he mumbles, turning back around to face the wall.

"Someone didn't get their beauty sleep."

The showers are turned on, and fortunately neither one of them tries to make conversation. They make their way to the kitchen in silence, and Jared spends the better part of the morning avoiding both of them, because he doesn't know how to act. Instead, he follows Tom around, helping him with dishes and hearing all about his life in the meantime. Apparently, he systematically stole a shitload of laptops and other electronics from the office he used to work at to earn a quick buck by re-selling them. Until he got caught red-handed. All he got in return for that last laptop was a conviction for grand larceny and a three year sentence. He's up for parole in six months, though, and he seems hopeful that he'll get out and be re-united with his girlfriend and his beloved dog.

He won't shut up about the damn dog but Jared doesn't mind, it means he doesn't have to share any information in return so he does his best to keep Tom talking.

After lunch, Tom's just on his third re-telling of the time Ringo - how original - ate his favorite trainers, when Rich butts in.

"Tom, mind if I borrow him for a sec? Can't find my lighter and I'm desperate for a smoke."

"Yeah, sure," Tom nods, smiling at Jared when he walks off with Rich.

When they're out in the yard, Rich turns around to face him. "So, you got the rundown of Ringo's Greatest Adventures?"

"Think I got the special extended edition," Jared says, unsurprised when Rich pulls out a cigarette and lighter and lights up quickly. "I take it I'm here for a different reason than providing you with fire?" He lights up too, and leans against one of the tables.

"Deductive reasoning, well done." Rich blows out a cloud of smoke. "Why're you avoiding us?"

""I'm not-"

"Cut the bullshit, I'm not a fucking idiot." Rich watches him closely, eyes narrowed. "Mish said you guys were fine last night, so what happened between then and this morning?"

Jared doesn't answer. Can't think of any excuse Rich might buy. 'I'm tired' is sort of out of the question, seeing as he did just spend a good few hours listening to Tom talk.

"Did Ackles do something?"

"Why did you warn me about him?"

"Already told you."

"It's not good enough. What has he done to _you_?"

Rich scowls and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up, "I don't know what he's been telling you, but where Jensen Ackles is concerned it's best you just don't listen."

"Then you tell me?"

Rich narrows his eyes further to the point of squinting, trying to see past Jared's words. Suddenly, his eyes widen, and he looks positively stricken for a moment. After that, it's just defeat, sad shoulders, his head hanging slightly. "He told you."

Smartass scientists need to look into a way that can make people vanish into thin air by pressing a button. He could really use one of those. Another conversation he really doesn't want to have but again, there's nowhere to run.

"Motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch," Rich growls, glaring over his shoulder at the now empty canteen. "You tell Misha or even hint to him that you know, I'll break every bone in your body and use them to play Mikado, got it?"

Jared nods, nerves coiling in his stomach because the 180 Rich just pulled on him is extremely unsettling and suddenly Jared can see how this man ended up in prison.

"You got any questions, come to me. You feel a need to talk about it and express your feelings, you can fuck off and write to a columnist in Seventeen."

"Okay." Jared puts his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table and looks at Rich warily.

"Fucking _ask_ already."

Jared leans back, away from Rich. Fuck, what's up with everyone taking out their frustrations on him?

"Was Jensen one of them?"

Rich's eyes darken until they're almost black. He wrings his hands, and Jared watches his jaw clench. "I don't know," Rich forces out, looking away. "I wasn't there."

"But-"

"He doesn't talk about it." Rich grinds out through clenched teeth. "Would you?"

Probably not, no. It would be easier to forget it ever happened than to face up to it and deal, accept. Whoever came up with bullshit like that needs to have their own head examined.

"I don't think he was one of them," Rich says, staring off in the distance, lost in thought. "Why do you think he was?"

"He knew how many there were and what happened."

Rich considers the information, then shrugs. "It was in his wing, his cell block. Makes sense that he'd know that."

"It wasn't in this block?"

"Wasn't even C-Wing. When Misha came in he was a little... aggressive, so they put him in E-Wing, with all the other fuckers that were too dangerous for GenPop."

"He doesn't seem-"

"Not anymore, no. But he beat up both guards on his way in and didn't stop when he got through the gate. You'd never know it, but the guy's got a temper on him that would make any smart man run for the hills."

"Misha?" Jared just can't believe it. He's so quiet and withdrawn most of the time. Polar opposite of Rich.

"He's got a tight fucking leash on it, convinced it's what got him into trouble. But when that control snaps. You don't wanna be anywhere near him."

Seems every con in this place is either highly flammable and constantly about to knock someone's teeth out, or calm and quiet, but tense like an elastic band pulled too tight, waiting to snap. Jared's not sure which kind is the scarier one, the more dangerous of the two.

"Just remember that you know nothing."

Jared nods. "Why was Jensen moved to C-Wing? If he's that dangerous..."

"I don't know. He probably has friends in high places. Or maybe they just got tired of him in E-Wing. Hell, it could be some messed up re-socialization thing for all I know."

"They never caught who did it?"

"Come on, Nemo, you're not that stupid. If Mish had talked he'd be in the ground by now."

Good point. "I won't say anything."

"Damn right you won't. And don't go questioning Ackles for info, it doesn't matter who did it. Nothing that can be done about it now."

"Wouldn't you want to break every bone in their bodies?"

The muscle next to Rich's left eye twitches, but other than that his face is a mask. "Oh, I'd be a bit more creative than that."

*

They go back inside, and Jared keeps his promise, he doesn't avoid them anymore, and he does his absolute best to act normal. It's easier than expected with Misha, who seems eager for normal, and they spend a good hour before dinner talking about food and movies and how they miss Texas.

What Misha misses most is driving up to the mountains to go camping, have a campfire and play guitar, roast marshmallows. 

Jared's never done any of those things, but it doesn't matter. Misha's words paint a picture in full Technicolor, and Jared finds himself wanting to be near a campfire. Not for the heat but for the atmosphere and the freedom. He tells Misha about summers at his grandparents' lake house. How he used to play outside with his cousins all day, climb trees and swim and chase rabbits. The memories tighten his throat, especially when he talks about his momma.

He never talks about her, not to anyone, not even Sandy, because those memories are his, and he doesn't want to share them with anyone else, doesn't want to taint them or take away from them. Misha though, he's just that easy to talk to, and Jared almost feels like he should tell Misha about himself now that he knows the most horrible thing that ever happened to Misha. He doesn't say much, but Jared can tell he's listening, knows from how he smiles and frowns in all the right places, and it does the opposite of what he usually expects talking about her results in. It validates his memories, adds to them and makes them feel more alive because he's re-telling them.

"Can I ask what happened to her?" Misha asks gently, and Jared wants to tell him.

"She killed herself."

Misha's eyebrows shoot up and he holds up a hand in apology. "Fuck, Jared, I'm sorry I-"

"No, it's okay." He looks down at the colorful pile of chopped fruit in front of him. "She was depressed all her life. And then I guess... I guess one day she just, she couldn't do it anymore, y'know?"

Misha nods slowly, eyes warm and sympathetic, so Jared continues.

"I was seventeen. It wasn't a very nice year."

"I'm sorry."

"Thank you." He means it. Feels better for talking about something so personal. It mends something between them that Jared thought he'd broken by listening to Jensen's poisonous words. He feels some weird connection to Misha, like he found a real friend. It's a foreign feeling.

When he's back in his cell that night, Jensen ignores him completely, and Jared is more than grateful. His first week of work may have flown by in a blur of arguments, tension and food, but it was still a week filled with work, and he's beyond glad that tomorrow is a Saturday.

It means sleeping in, a little, compared to the rest of the week at least, but by the time he's showering with a couple dozen inmates he's wishing for the early mornings and relatively quiet showers. He eats his breakfast with Rich and Misha. When they go to the gym, Jared isn't sure if he should follow them. He's around them all the time during the week, it's not a stretch to assume that they're just not up for it during the weekends. He stalls by the table lamely, unsure of what to do, when Rich call over his shoulder.

"Weights, Nemo. Don't wanna look like a half-washed-away sandcastle, just because no woman's gonna appreciate it for a long while."

"Fuck off," Jared mutters, but he can't help but smile a little. At least he won't have to spend his day off alone, feeling pathetic. 

Turns out most inmates picked the sunny yard to exercise, and there are only about a dozen men at the gym when the three of them walk in. It's not a huge gym, and it's mostly focused on weights with only a few rowing machines and hometrainers. Misha and Rich go for bench pressing, but Jared picks one of the hometrainers. As he cycles, he closes his eyes, giving into the little daydream that he's actually going somewhere. Perhaps if he just paddles fast enough he can cycle right out of here.

"Where're you going?"

The voice next to him nearly makes him lose his balance and tumble off the seat. He looks around, unsurprised at the owner of the voice. Jensen. Of course.

"Will you stop sneaking up on me?"

"When did I ever sneak up on you before?" Jensen leans against the hometrainer next to Jared, observing him casually. He's swapped his t-shirt for a wifebeater - white - but he seems inseparable from those gray sweatpants.

"Stop watching me like I'm some fascinating... thing."

"You're not that fascinating," Jensen tells him, yet he makes no move to look away.

"Then why are you here?"

"Bored," Jensen shrugs before he's distracted by something behind Jared.

Jared looks over his shoulder, snaps his head back when he realizes Jensen is looking at Misha and Rich. "How fascinating are _they_ to you?"

Jensen smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. Looks more like a grimace. "Free porn every now and then."

Jared turns his head to the wall in front of him, deciding he doesn't want to know. It's painfully clear that Misha and Rich keep their distance now that Jensen is keeping Jared company, and while he understands, it still doesn't sit well with him. 

"So, you ever fuck a man?"

"What?" Jared's voice jumps, brain trying to make sense of the abrupt change of topic.

"It's the kind of info I can't find out unless I ask you," Jensen explains, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to ask a stranger.

"No." Jared's impressed with himself that he's still cycling, but then again, Jensen's presence makes him more determined to cycle the fuck out of here.

"You gotta be desperate for it by now," Jensen drawls, words thick and smooth like honey. Jared only just manages to suppress a shiver under Jensen's watchful gaze. "I know you haven't jacked off in a week, maybe two. You're probably just about smart enough not to do it while bunking with Marcus, and nine outta ten in the hole are too busy losing their minds to even think about their dicks."

"You've got a theory about everything and everyone, don't you?"

"No. These are facts. A theory would be whatever I came up with to explain those facts."

"Maybe I just don't follow my dick around."

Jensen considers him for a moment, tongue running over the edge of his teeth before replying. "Have you ever been diagnosed with hypoactive sexual desire disorder?"

"No?"

"You got balls?"

"Y-eah?"

"Then you follow your dick around." Jensen nods once, as if he's just confirmed that the square root of sixteen is four. "And in here you're probably following it straight into a wall."

"Are you just talking at me for your own entertainment now, or am I supposed to interject?"

"Feel free to not talk."

"You're talking about _my_ dick."

Jensen's eyes darken just so, and the right corner of his mouth lifts up a little. "It's not personal."

Fucking uncanny Godfather impression, but Jared is not going to give him the joy of seeing he manages to creep Jared the fuck out. It's that he can't figure Jensen out, can't get a grip on him. Guy's slippery like an eel, one moment he seems like an okay guy, the next he says or does something that makes the hair on the back of Jared's neck stand up. He's fairly sure Jensen's doing it on purpose, too, just playing with him like a cat with a ball of yarn. It's entirely too easy for him, effortless, automatic, frustrating as hell.

Jensen's attention is drawn away from Jared, to an inmate that enters the gym. He's short and stocky, blond hair brushing his shoulders, and the corner of Jensen's eye twitches. The inmate stops in his tracks when he sees Jensen, jaw tightening. He starts moving over to the two of them, Jensen turning away from Jared once the inmate is in front of him. 

"Jensen Ackles." He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Max Walker." Jensen sounds disinterested, but Jared doesn't miss the way his shoulders tighten, and one of his hands is balled into a tight fist.

The inmate looks behind Jensen as if he's looking for something, then refocuses on Jensen. "No Chris this time?"

Jared can hear Jensen breathe from where he is standing. Even. Deep. But audible all the same. He doesn't say a word, doesn't move, and eventually the inmate rolls his eyes and walks off, mumbling something under his breath.

"Visiting time!" A guard yells suddenly, shaking Jensen out of it. He holds Jared's gaze for a moment, regarding him as if he's a mildly engaging math problem, before he turns around and marches off.

Jared's still staring at his back, confused about the weird interaction, when the words 'visiting time' sink in. How is he supposed to know if anyone's visiting him?

Simple logic tells him how he is supposed to know. No one but maybe Sandy would come visit him. And Sandy is about four hours away and unable to travel. His shoulders sag when he realizes there simply isn't anyone else.

Someone clears their throat, making Jared look up to find Misha standing in front of his bike. Misha looks about as sad as Jared feels right now. 

"Smoke?" He asks, and Jared nods in response.

"Where's Rich?" He asks Misha as he follows him through the corridors to the yard.

"His sister's visiting. He said I should come too, but I just... I don't wanna intrude, y'know?"

"Don't you have your own visitors?"

Misha glances at him sideways, chewing on his lip lightly. "Do you?"

Jared winces. "Point taken."

"Boston is a long way away," Misha shrugs. "There's no one who cares that much."

"Same here," Jared mumbles, stepping out into the yard. "Who do you think could possibly be visiting Ackles?"

Misha shrugs, turning around to light his cigarette. "Probably his lawyer. Don't think he's had anyone but his lawyer come around."

"His lawyer," Jared muses, unsure whether he's surprised to learn no one else visits Jensen.

"Yeah. Which reminds me, if you ever figure out what he's in for, you can earn yourself some money."

"Why?"

"One of the biggest mysteries in Angola, what's Jensen Ackles in for. Info like that is worth big bucks, what with all the rumors going 'round."

"Rumors?"

Misha sighs and turns around until he's facing Jared. "Some people think he's mafia, others think he's a child molester. Some think he's a terrorist or a spy or a serial killer slash rapist."

"What do _you_ think?"

"Ain't got a clue," Misha mumbles, "guess all of those would fit him, so I don't know."

"How can no one know?" It doesn't make sense. Surely this kind of thing would get around.

"It's the kind of thing a guard may let slip, that's how things become public knowledge. But with him..." Misha trails off, follows the cloud of smoke drifting away from him. "No one has said anything, and it was never on the news."

"He doesn't have any friends in here..."

"No," Misha gives him a funny look. "Why?"

"No one... bothers him, though, people leave him alone-"

"That's because people are afraid of him," Misha says, slowly as if he's talking to a small child. "Did you listen to a word we said the other day? He's dangerous. When he's around-"

"Accidents happen," Jared finishes for him, staring down at the glowing cherry of his cigarette thoughtfully. "I dunno, he's a nutcase, but-"

"See?" Misha points at him. "Even after a few days, you already know something's wrong with him. What did he do?"

"He didn't really-"

"What did he do?"

Jared scowls, unamused at how every single person in this place seems to think it's alright to tell him what to do. "He stared at me, when I got up in the middle of the night."

It sounds more than a little stupid and childish to repeat it now. "He didn't blink or move so I thought he was dead, but he was breathing, so I thought he was asleep, and then he said something."

Misha nods at him seriously, no hint of mocking or ridicule in his eyes, which worries Jared a bit.

"Hey Mish?"

"Mmm?"

"How come none of his former cellies ever found out what he's in for?"

Misha's eyes darken, and Jared instantly knows he's not gonna like what comes out of his mouth next. He's not mistaken. Misha takes another drag of his cigarette, exhaling the words in a cloud of smoke. 

"He's never had a cellie before."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my awesome beta Candygramme. All remaining mistakes are my own.

_I am a re-socializing project, and I'm gonna get killed._

That's the mantra that stays with him for the rest of the day as he idly wonders just what he did to deserve this. Rich doesn't fucking know how right he was calling Jared Nemo; the prison staff seem quite happy to use him as shark bait.

'Let's see if Jensen Ackles still got a set of teeth on him'. It's unfair. They could've picked anyone. Why did it have to be Jared? His negative spiral takes up permanent residence in the back of his mind while he plays chess with Misha in the rec room - and gets his ass handed to him all four times - and later in the day, when Rich is back and has pulled Misha aside to talk.

Jared frowns at the bookcase in front of him, frustration bubbling in the back of his throat. How satisfying would it be to pull every book from that case and fling them across the room? Probably not nearly as satisfying as punching someone, pinning all that frustration on someone he can trick himself into believing deserves it. Maybe he should take it out on himself instead.

He reluctantly moves onto the next big thing on his mind: What is Jensen in for? Misha was right, Jared can imagine all the options mentioned. Well, maybe not all of them, but Jensen is fucking impossible to read. Mafia, fuck yes, absolutely. It's a mystery, a puzzle, and it comes with a spark of excitement, as if he's just found a new mission. Might as well make the most of a bad situation; apply his flexibility.

He's going to find out what Jensen's in for. It will be beneficial in a number of ways. It will satisfy his own curiosity, and it will earn him valuable information, which by extension also makes him valuable, which means he will be influential. He'll matter, somehow, and it will be good. More important than both of those though, he will have an idea of what he's closing his eyes on every night. Ultimately, it will make it easier for him to protect himself, once he knows what he's protecting himself from. 

Glad with his newfound plan he looks around for Rich and Misha. He needs to get as much information as he can out of everyone who knows anything at all. If he gains some leverage over Jensen he can turn the tables, and it will be him manipulating Jensen and not the other way around. It's an exciting thought, but every kind of purpose would be exciting at this point. 

Misha and Rich aren't in the rec room anymore, a quick glance around confirms. Probably went out for a cigarette. He rushes through the corridors for the kitchen to find it completely empty. Huh. He pauses mid-way through the canteen when he hears something in the back of the kitchen.

What...

He steps behind the counters and starts making his way to the back. For some reason, he doesn't know, but he doesn't call out. It's coming from his left, past the large industrial freezers. He peeks around the last one, into the narrow corridor that leads to the storage cupboard. His breath catches in his throat at what he sees, and he'll die before admitting it but heat pools low in his stomach, his dick giving an interested twitch. 

In the hallway is Rich, pressed against the wall - no, pinned against the wall - by Misha. Misha's hand pushes one of Rich's hands flat against the wall by his head, one of his legs between both of Rich's. Their lips are fused, tongues battling for dominance, ragged breaths exchanged between them. A groan, a lower moan. Rich's hand sneaks under the hem of Misha's hoodie, mapping pale skin, fingertips slow, committing it to memory yet still caressing with a familiarity that breathes knowledge of this body that isn't his own. There isn't a whisper of space between them, but they're still trying to get closer, to disappear into each other.

It is by far the most erotic and intimate thing Jared has ever witnessed, and when Misha's hand reaches between him and Rich Jared can't swallow down a whispered 'fuck'.

The reaction is instant, both of them letting go of the other, lips separating with a soft noise that tingles down Jared's spine as four eyes land on him. One set of wide with worry blue, one set of hard as nails hazel. They both relax when they see it's Jared, though the wariness hangs heavy in the air between them.

"I..." Jared starts, clears his throat, because his voice sounds too rough, and he doesn't want to think about why that is. "Sorry. I was just... looking for you guys."

"Well, ya found us Nemo," Rich says. He doesn't seem angry. He glances over his shoulder at Misha, then walks past Jared muttering something about ninja-esque spying skills and walking like a nine year old girl.

Jared is afraid to look at Misha after Rich leaves, well aware that he's been doing a lot of 'invading of privacy' when it comes to the two of them. The silence stretches uncomfortably between them, so Jared resolves to break it with the first thing that comes to mind.

"So. You and Rich, hm?"

"Fuck off, Jared. It gets lonely in here."

"So Rich keeps telling me," Jared replies evenly, holding his breath as he waits for Misha to relax and take it as the joke it was meant to be. He really needs them both to know that it doesn't matter to him. They can do whatever they like with whomever they like. Jared's not gonna lose any sleep over it.

"Don't talk, Jared," Misha tells him, holding his gaze for a moment.

"What about watching?" Jared wiggles his eyebrows, and if he's only half-joking, Misha doesn't need to know about it.

Misha snorts, pushes his hair back from his face, before he puts both hands in the pocket of his hoodie. "Close your eyes and use your imagination."

Jared closes his eyes on cue, only to open them again when Misha punches his shoulder. "Not here you dirty perv. I'm right fucking _here_!"

_Kinda the point_ , but he doesn't say it, even he has a vague notion of how far is too far.

Jared thanks his lucky stars because nothing turns awkward between them. Both Misha and Rich act as if nothing happened. It's Jared who's a little distracted, because he can't wipe the lingering image of the two of them wrapped up in each other from his retinas. Fucking hotter than it has any right being, but he tells himself it's no reason to have a sexual identity crisis just yet. He doesn't have time for one, what with his new mission and all, and Misha was right anyway. It gets lonely in prison.

Which sorta means Rich was right, and even Jensen was - lalala, nope, can't hear you, sorry.

He thinks he manages to hide his distraction relatively well, or well enough that neither Misha nor Rich mention it.

*

Lockdown comes too soon. He hasn't even had a chance to press Rich and Misha for more details about Jensen, but maybe it's better if he organizes the information he has first before he goes looking for more. He nods at Jensen when he enters the cell, not at all surprised to find Jensen in his default position of stretched out on his bunk with a book.

"Had a nice visit?" Jared asks casually, not looking at Jensen to underline his nonchalance. He's not fishing.

"Uh-huh." Jensen shifts over on his bunk. "Did you?"

He swallows back the bitter loneliness that is quick to rise to the surface, decides to use it to his advantage. He lets his shoulders sag a little, and his voice drops. "Not everyone is lucky enough to have friends and family visit them." He sighs despondently, waiting for Jensen to respond. He's not necessarily expecting sympathy, silence seems more likely, or a complete brush over.

All of those he's expecting, but it's not what he gets. Instead, he's startled out of his thoughts by a muffled sound, which quickly transforms into full-out laughing that sounds like ice cubes clinking together in a cold drink on a hot afternoon. Jared turns to look at Jensen, completely perplexed, but Jensen just keeps on laughing.

"Are you fucking serious? You need to work on the drama queen act. That was way too much."

Fucking fantastic. Jared stomps to the sink, ignoring the last of Jensen's snickering and cursing himself for being such an idiot. For thinking he could change the rules and beat the master at his own game. Stupid.

"You already know it was my lawyer visiting."

"How did you-"

"People in this joint have a lot to do and say about me. It's usually a lot of crap, but it's not all that difficult to spot a lawyer."

Jared rolls his lips into his mouth and glances at the back of Jensen's head. "No family?"

"None of your business," Jensen replies without missing a beat. "Let's establish this once again. No sharing and caring. If you need to give into your deep-seated need to act like a fourteen year old go talk to Collins."

"Why Collins?" that's a bit of an odd thing to say, so Jared jumps on it immediately.

"Guy really should be a counsellor or something. He can talk and talk and _listen_. It's nauseating is what it is."

Interesting knowledge of someone Jensen isn't supposed to know that well. 

"How do you know?"

A beat, and Jared holds his breath, wondering if he pushed too far, and Jensen is about to snap.

"We were in the same therapy group together," Jensen says, voice clear, but a little off from what Jared has started to label as 'normal'.

"The substance abuse one?" For some reason he didn't have Jensen down as a junkie. 

Jensen gets up from his bunk and takes a few steps over to Jared, crowding him against the back wall of the cell. He's too close, not touching anywhere, but Jared can count the freckles on his nose without having to strain.

"No," Jensen says, licking his lips slowly, Jared's eyes immediately drawn to the motion. "Not that one."

"Oh. Okay." He smiles apologetically and tries to side-step Jensen, but Jensen is having none of it. 

"You ask a lot of questions," Jensen continues, voice melodic, as if he's saying the words to match a tune in his head. "And you don't listen."

"Huh?" 

"You've been warned about me. They always warn the new guys. Question is, why are you ignoring them?" The last words are whispered in Jared's ear, warm breath fanning over the shell, making Jared dizzy. An instant later, Jensen is gone, back to the bars staring out, while Jared is still sagged against the wall trying to make sense of what happened. He's not sure whether he should be worried and afraid, or intrigued and interested.

It's eerie how easily Jensen had woven a silk web of illusion around them until Jared had no idea what was going on anymore. A warning clear in Jensen's actions, yet Jared can't take a mental step back to create some much-needed distance between them. Moth to flame, and he knows it's incredibly stupid, and he knows there's no way he won't get burned but it all takes a backseat to how much he wants to stay close and see what happens next.

Jared brushes his teeth quickly and climbs into his bunk without looking at Jensen. He lies flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. So, the facts are, he's Jensen Ackles, and he's been here for a while. He used to stay in a wing for dangerous prisoners, and he's never had a cell mate before. People are afraid of him. He was there when Misha got... attacked. He may have had something to do with it. The only visitor he ever has is his lawyer. And he was in some type of therapy group with Misha that had nothing to do with substance abuse.

It's a reasonable amount of information but he needs more. Maybe he can find someone else who has been in that wing, someone who isn't Misha. Someone must know something.

He falls asleep with a half-formed plan in mind, eager to put it in motion the day after. He'll figure it out, one way or another.

When he opens his eyes the next morning, Jensen is already up and gone. It's getting easier to sleep through the sounds of prison, though he's somewhat disturbed that he managed to sleep through the morning buzzer and cells opening. Not good at all, it's as if someone knocked him out.

He's half-asleep through most of his shower, until his eyes meet Jensen's on the other side of the room.

_Don't look. Don't look. Don't fucking look._

It's a challenge sizzling between them, Jensen smirking knowingly while Jared wishes he could disappear. It's when Jensen's eyes start drifting down to Jared's chest, slowly, dragging in a way Jared swears he can feel on his skin, that Jared does the same. He catches a flash of tan skin stretched tight over muscle and bone in all the right places, and when he turns around to face the wall again he's more confused than ever, and he can't blame the flush of his cheeks on the lukewarm shower.

Seems from the moment he decided he was going to play with Jensen, Jensen upped the game even more, and Jared can't keep up, seems he's three steps behind Jensen at all times. He can't make sense of it, but he's not going to let it get to him. Jensen doesn't even know him. He can't possibly know which buttons to push to fuck with Jared's head. He's playing it by ear, and Jared's going to return the favor as best he can.

He's quiet during breakfast, but Misha and Rich make up for any lull in conversation. Jared's not paying attention to them, hums every now and then when agreement seems appropriate. After breakfast they move on to the rec room where they sit down at one of the tables with a game of cards.

The TV is on in the corner, sound turned up loud with a few cons huddled around it to watch the news. They play poker, and Jared loses himself to the game until his attention is drawn by the voice of the anchor man. He freezes, fingers going numb around the cards as the blood drains from his face.

"Alexander Loureau's last appeal has been denied. The case of the 28-year-old charged with murder in the first degree and armed robbery was expedited by the courts due to public outrage. Loureau will be transported to Louisiana State Penitentiary where he will await a date to be set for his execution."

Blood pounds in Jared's temples, cold sweat trickles down his back. "No," he croaks, head spinning as he looks at the TV and finds wide blue eyes staring back at him. Jared shakes his head, cards falling from his fingers as he grabs his hair, pushing against his ears to drown the voice out. His eyes slip shut, and he's in the liquor store. His arm is stretched out in front of him, hand curled around metal, the light glinting off it. He tries to pull his hand down, but he can't. His lips are moving of their own accord.

It takes a moment before the buzzing in his ears dies down enough that he can hear himself talk. "I'm not gonna hurt you. Just give me the cash, and we'll both walk away."

His eyes focus, and he sees the blond girl standing in front of him behind the counter. Scared eyes stare at him in fear, but his eyes are drawn to the pink skull necklace resting against her t-shirt. His ears are tuned to the clock ticking behind her head, each second echoing in his mind as it ticks away.

"Hand it over." He winces at the sound of his own voice, but he can't stop the words. Someone comes to stand next to him, and Jared doesn't have to look to know who it is.

"Give us the money, bitch."

He looks anyway. Alex. A quivering, tall weight next to him, nearly black hair with blue eyes and dark circles around them. He's grinding his teeth, hand holding the gun shaking badly. Jared tries to scream, tell him to stop.

"Easy Alex." Is what comes out instead. How could he have been so blind? One look at Alex is enough to know he's dealing with someone who is no longer in control of his actions, drugged up to the eyeballs, a loose cannon about to go off any minute now. Any minute now.

The girl shakes her head, and when she reaches for the phone next to her, it plays out as if in slow motion. Doesn't matter that Jared knows what's going to happen, the shock is no less now than the first time this happened. She reaches out, and Alex steps forward. The shot rings out loudly, like an explosion.

The girl's head turns, empty eyes locking with Jared's for a moment as blood starts to trickle down her forehead. She's falling, hand grabbing the chips display and pulling it down with her. Jared is drowning, the shot bouncing around in his skull, ripping at things he hadn't really stitched together in the first place, heart like a trapped animal trying to break out of his chest. The last thing he sees is the girl's lifeless eyes.

*

His surroundings fade, blur into a swirl of colors, and when he opens his eyes again he's staring up at a ceiling, and someone is gasping for air. No. He is gasping for air, and he's looking at the ceiling, because he's on his back on the floor of the rec room. He sees Misha's face, and Rich's, and possibly Jensen's, but nothing's in focus, and he can't breathe.

Someone kneels next to him, pulls the sleeve of his arm up, and he feels the sting of a needle just a second before warm spreads through him.

Everything blurs again, images and sounds pulled from his mind moving further away and further away until the pinpricks vanish into thin air. 

Then nothing but blackness.

There are voices around him. Far away, distorted. He can't make out what's being said. His perception of time is shot to hell, and he's locked in his head with no way of getting out. It's comfortably blank, until it isn't anymore. 

His eyes blink once, twice, three times, before he can make out a few blurry shapes around him. They finally settle on a familiar shape next to him.

"Misha?" He croaks, squinting until his eyes focus and he can see that it is indeed Misha.

"Hey. How you feeling?" Misha looks worried but Jared's mostly just confused about why he's here.

"How did you get here? And where is here? And how did I get here?"

Misha looks around quickly then leans closer, elbows resting on the bed Jared is lying on. "They wanted you to see someone familiar when you came to, and apparently I'm the best candidate."

That... seems entirely too kind. He didn't think prison cared about him other than keeping him breathing and keeping him from killing someone. "Where are we?"

"Hospital wing. They gave you a mild sedative." Misha looks thoughtful for a moment, as if he's not sure whether he should share the rest of the story. Jared's glad when he does.

"When they heard what had been on the TV, what triggered your... this. They were suddenly very understanding, and Dugas told me to stay with you."

Jared closes his eyes when he remembers the news item. The sedative makes it dimmed and duller than it should be. Rather than triggering a new round of panic it just makes him lost and defeated.

"Who is he, Jared?" Misha asks softly.

Jared turns his head to look at him, look at the familiar blue of what is quickly becoming his best friend in here, if not the best friend he's had in years. Misha's been nothing but honest and nice to him, let Jared into his life when he really didn't have to, and Jared doesn't want to shut him out.

"Alex is... the armed robbery I got done for. He was my partner." Jared swallows, glad that Misha doesn't say anything but just lets him continue. "I needed money, badly. My girlfriend was hooked, and she kept stealing my shit, so I was into some guys for a lot of money. I needed to pay off my debts, Alex needed to buy more shit. It was the perfect combination."

He trails off, lost in the memory of approaching Alex about the job.

"But it wasn't, hm?"

Jared shakes his head. "He was shivering his way through withdrawals when we got to the liquor store, and I was too stubborn to see it."

"The girl reached for the phone, and Alex snapped. Pulled the trigger, before I could even move. They said she died instantly, but she looked at me before she fell and I just... I keep seeing her eyes, y'know?"

Misha's fingers brush against Jared's arm lightly. "So he gets the needle, how did you walk away from that?"

Jared looks away guiltily, regret eating at his gut. "My gun wasn't loaded. He got his own from somewhere, which makes it murder with aggravating circumstances, 'cause it was in the middle of a robbery."

Misha frowns. "He never stood a chance."

"No. He didn't." And now Alex Loureau is coming here to die, because Jared asked him for some help. No. He offered a desperate junkie an easy way to get money. He used Alex, because he knew he couldn't do it on his own.

"I see how you would come to the conclusion, but you can't blame yourself for that one."

Jared stares down at the white sheets in his lap, Misha's tattooed hand next to his own. It is his fault. First the girl's death and now Alex. "When do you think they'll bring him here?"

Misha chews on his lip before answering. "Monday. Tomorrow. Why?"

"He's gonna be right here. D'you think they'll let me see him?"

"Why would you want to?" Misha's tone may be light, but he sounds dead serious. "What would you tell him? How would it help you or him?"

Too many questions for his still-fuzzy brain, and it's not as if he has answers for them anyway. "I just wanna talk to him."

"I'm... I think they may wanna bargain with you," Misha muses, tapping his index finger against his lips.

"How do you mean?" What could he possibly bring to the table?

"If you make a commitment to getting treatment for your non-existent PTSD," Misha holds up a hand to stop Jared before he can even start. "You give them what they want, they may be willing to consider letting you see him as part of your therapy."

"I'm not gonna-"

"Shut your big mouth and just... just sleep on it?"

Jared shrugs. He's well aware he's being stubborn, dragging his heels when he knows Misha has a point, and it probably isn't the worst idea ever. Still feels too much like giving in, though.

"No shame in getting help when you have a problem," Misha says gently, smoothing out the sheets under his fingertips.

Jared chews on his lip, thinking, then asking right away figuring he can always blame it on the drugs if Misha gets angry at him. "Jensen said you and him were in a group together, and it wasn't for substance abuse."

Misha sighs, fingers coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose as if he's fighting off a headache. "Can you please stop playing this game of 'Jensen says' and just fucking _ask_ what you wanna know?"

"What kinda group were you in with Jensen?"

"It was a brief experimental thing that didn't work." Misha shifts in his seat and stares past Jared out the window. "Group therapy is usually reserved for drug counseling, or something offense-focused. Not so much other things. It gets too... real. They put together a group of five people who they thought might benefit."

"Why Jensen?"

Misha narrows his eyes at Jared, jaw tight and shoulders tense. "I'm afraid I can't tell you."

"But-"

"I promised the people in that group I wouldn't repeat what they said."

"How do you know they haven't?"

"I don't," Misha shakes his head, "but I still promised, and I'mma keep my promise."

Great. An honorable man in prison. 

Someone stops at his bed on the side across from Misha. It's the nurse, the one who bandaged him up before he went to the hole. She smiles at him, setting the clipboard down on Jared's bed.

"Hey Jared, how are you feeling?"

"Tired." Confused, unsure, worried, scared, guilty. Tired is the only one he's willing to share.

"I'm not surprised," she nods. "The sedative we gave you will continue to make you feel groggy for a whole, so it's probably best that you sleep it off."

"Okay." Sleep sounds good, he can do that.

"Now, about what triggered this in the first place." She glances at Misha, then back at Jared, unspoken question clear in her eyes.

"He can stay." In fact, Jared really doesn't want Misha to go.

"Alright, the news item. Would you like to talk to someone about it?"

"Not really, no."" Feels like he's done enough talking for the night.

"We think it would be a good idea for you to see a therapist."

He catches Misha's eyes for a moment, before looking back at the nurse. He can't remember her name even though he's fairly certain she told him. "Can I sleep on it?"

She nods, encouraging smile in place, and he knows she means well, but he's annoyed. She's just one more person who thinks she knows best. One more in a very long line. "Can I go ho-" he swallows painfully, longing for his own home, his own normal, tugging at him in a way it hasn't before, in a way that probably isn't helped by the drugs. "Can I go back to my cell now?"

The nurse raises an eyebrow, seemingly confused at his request. "Eh, yeah, if you want to? You can stay here for the night, though."

Jared shakes his head. He knows it's stupid, but his cell is the closest thing he has to a home right now. It's familiar, it has what little he owns, and he even prefers Jensen's company to being here and alone.

"Alright, up to you. I'll get a guard to take you guys back to C-Wing."

"Thank you," he mumbles, watching the back of her head as she walks away. "What time is it?"

"About dinner time."

As if on cue, Jared's stomach rumbles, though at the same time the thought of the busy, crowded canteen with all the other cons including the ones who saw his little 'episode', it makes his head spin.

He's relieved when it's Dugas that comes to pick them up, but even more so when he leads them back to the deserted cell block and to Jared's cell, where two trays with dinner await them.

"Collins, do you mind keeping Jared company 'till after dinner?"

"No problem," Misha says, stepping into the cell. He eyes Jensen's bunk, then Jared's, and finally chooses to sit on the floor, back against the wall. Jared follows suit, sitting down next to Misha with his own tray.

Dugas looks down at them for a moment before he nods to himself. "Collins, you go back to your cell when everyone comes back from dinner."

"Will do." Misha digs into his mac and cheese with an enthusiasm as if he hasn't eaten in days.

Jared picks at his own before he takes a few bites, quickly deciding he really needs to eat, and the mac and cheese doesn't taste all that bad. Feels a bit like they're picnicking, though not on grass but on concrete.

"How many people saw me..." Jared waves a hand in the air.

"About twenty." Misha takes a sip of orange juice. "Ackles was there."

Oh fuck, of course he was.

"If he's fucking with your head you should say something. Don't let it get out of hand."

"I can handle it." It's a lie, Misha knows it, Jared knows it. He just doesn't have anything better to offer right now.

"I know you're curious, I get it, but... don't dig. You won't like what you'll find."

"You said you don't know what I'd find."

"Whatever it is, it's not good. He probably has enough skeletons in his closet to make the entire cell block look like choir boys."

Probably. Doesn't mean he doesn't want to know.

"Don't get involved." Misha looks at him, almost pleading. "Don't let him get under your skin, 'cause it's just a game to him. He lives his life like he's playing chess, and you're... you're no more than a pawn to him."

Jared knows that, but it doesn't matter. Jensen's drawn him in somehow, pressed the 'activate' button on his interest, and he can't turn it off anymore. They finish eating in silence, and it's not long before the doors to the cell block buzz open and inmates start coming in. 

Misha puts their trays on top of each other in a corner of the cell. "Are you gonna be okay?"

Jared nods, still on the floor, so he has to tilt his head to look up at Misha. It causes a wave of lightheadedness, and he has to close his eyes for a moment or risk losing his balance. He feels Jensen is standing by the bars before he sees him, or maybe it's in the way Misha's eyes darken, and all emotion leaves his face.

He turns his head to find Jensen leaning against the bars, looking at both of them with amusement lighting up his eyes.

"Take care, Jared," Misha mumbles under his breath, casting him one last glance before he rushes past Jensen and out of the cell.

Jensen steps in only enough to allow the bars to slide shut behind him, but he's still observing Jared as if he is trying to figure out what makes him tick.

"So, are you gonna kill me in my sleep?"

"Fuck off," Jared mutters, pushing himself up from the floor.

"He's coming tomorrow. Get a nice lil cell on death row until they decide on the exact date to stick a needle in his vein."

Jared nearly bites through his lip as he turns and walks over to Jensen, backing him up against the bars. "What the fuck is your problem?"

"Don't have one at the moment," Jensen smiles, a flash of white teeth "I knew there was more to you than met the eye. Robbers aren't nearly as troubled as you are."

"Yeah? Then what's your deal, huh? Plenty to pick from if you keep your ears open around here." He's lowered his voice so as not to attract attention from the guards, but there's no stopping everything he needs to say. "You a rapist, Jensen? Like to perv over little kids? Kill someone?"

Jensen doesn't move an inch, his smirk doesn't falter, his eyes seem to look straight through Jared. "You done talking?"

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?" Jared throws his hands in the air in frustration,. He paces up and down the cell, which is a fucking unfulfilling exercise in the tiny cell.

"I'm not sure why you think you get to point fingers at me, when you're partly responsible for killing this girl, and now someone who probably considered you a friend."

"He wasn't my friend."

"People don't hold up liquor stores for just anyone."

"He needed the money."

"There are other, less stupid ways of getting money."

"He was hooked on coke. Stupid meant nothing to him."

"So you used him then." Jensen rubs a finger over his lip in a way that looks so much like what Misha was doing earlier that it creeps Jared out a little.

"That's gotta eat at you," Jensen muses. "Not surprised about the nightmares then. You really fucked that one up spectacularly well."

"Just leave me the fuck alone," Jared says as he crawls onto his bunk. 

He hates Jensen for saying all these things, to the point where killing him in his sleep almost seems like a wonderful idea, even if the only thing that would get him is a cell next to Alex on death row.

Alex. He'd been one of the few friends Jared had after he swapped Texas for a one bedroom apartment in New Orleans. He'd met Sandy through Alex. She used to hang out with Alex's little sister who had moved to New York years ago. Maybe Alex was his friend, or at the very least considered Jared a friend. It's not as if there was anyone else, for either one of them. But Alex was a junkie, and Jared had cut back on the contact. It was bad enough to be Sandy's supplier, he couldn't afford to do it for both of them.

Fuck Jensen and his self-righteous smirk. He's got no room to talk, Jared's convinced he doesn't, and he vows to find out what Jensen's in for and rub it in his face. It's the last thought on his mind before sleep claims him, and it's the first one he wakes up with the next morning when a guard comes to fetch him for his shower.

Business as usual then, but it's not. His head is filled with ways to get info, and Jensen, and the anticipation of the arrival of new inmates. Of Alex. He probably won't even notice it, trapped here in C-Wing, but maybe some of the noise will carry through the guards, and he'll find out _something_.

As he stands under the shower head, alone for now, he lets himself think on how Alex must be feeling. He knows he's going to die, but then again everyone knows they're going to die. Only difference is he will find out when very soon. He's got to be terrified out of his mind, plus he probably had to have come off the drugs cold turkey.

"Hi Nemo," Rich greets him quietly, claiming one of the showers in the corner. Misha follows, takes the one next to it, worried eyes finding Jared's, the unspoken question clear.

"Morning," Jared says, giving Misha what he hopes is a reassuring look. _I'm fine._

He's not, not really, and he's glad to get to the kitchen and have something to do, something to distract himself with,. He's fast becoming a pro at making scrambled eggs and pancakes. Hidden talents for the absolute fail.

He's dishing out breakfast to a endless stream of prisoners, but of course it can't just be that easy.

"Morning sunshine, gimme some sugar."

"Go to hell," Jared says through gritted teeth, ignoring Jensen as he dishes out another spoonful of scrambled eggs.

"Be nice, Jay. You may come to find me useful sooner than you think." Jensen winks at him, then moves further down the line.

"You getting into trouble with Ackles this early on a Monday morning?" Rich asks him, focused on the food he's dishing out, and he seems more tense than usual.

"Don't worry about it," he mumbles.

"Don't..." Rich sights, turning towards Jared. "Are you fucking shitting me? You had an all out breakdown yesterday, Misha says you're letting this psycho get to you, and, yeah, you clearly are."

"I'm fine," Jared shrugs, nodding at the last inmate in line for breakfast.

"Apart from the bit where you're really not." Rich drops his spoon and walks to the back of the kitchen, probably in search of Misha. He leaves Jared there with the leftover food. It's not going to be a good day.

He puts the food away, cleans the counters, stalls until he has no other reason to linger here instead of joining the rest of the staff. He wonders what the hell Jensen meant when he said that. Useful how? What could Jensen possibly have that could be of use to him?

He frowns at the shiny counter, suddenly unsure. "Mish?" he calls over his shoulder, making his way over to where Misha and Rich are having breakfast.

"Mm?" Misha looks up at him, spoonful of sugary pancake half-way to his mouth.

"Where does Jensen work?"

"What?" Confusion knits Misha's eyebrows together.

"Jensen. Where does he work, what does he do all day?"

Misha sucks his lips into his mouth, glances at Rich, and for a moment Jared is sure Misha isn't going to tell him. "He delivers food to the hole... cleans it... the hole." Misha winces slightly. "And death row."

Fuck. Jared blinks slowly. 

"Jared, no, whatever you thinking, don't."

Pointless warning, plans are already forming in his head, different ways in which he could manipulate the situation to get what he wants without losing too much.

"You don't wanna be in debt to Ackles, Nemo."

"Alex is going to die, and I get to live with that," Jared says, harsher than he means to. "This is the only chance I have to talk to him."

"You don't even know what you wanna say to him!" Rich looks at Jared as if he's the biggest idiot on earth.

Misha kicks him under the table, making Rich pout and rub his leg. When Misha focuses on Jared, Jared wishes he'd used the distraction to walk away and get out of the conversation.

"If you do the therapy thing, you won't need Ackles."

"There's no guarantee they'd let me-"

"Yet somehow you seem to think Ackles will help you out of the kindness of his heart," Misha says.

"We can make a deal, work something out."

"You won't." Rich shakes his head. "He's never gonna be upfront with you, all you're gonna do is give him leverage."

"I'll do something for him if he does something for me," Jared says slowly, "it's that simple."

"It's not that simple." Misha chews on his lip, frustration clear in his eyes. "He'll hold it over your head indefinitely. He'll make you his personal slave and have you do whatever he wants to."

"I'll be fine."

"Yeah? You gonna be fine sucking him off when he asks? Gonna kill someone for him?"

Jared doesn't reply, doesn't know what to say. He doesn't want to admit that they have a point, and of course he doesn't want to do anything like that, but if he gets to talk to Alex, if he can give him a message or something. "Seems like an odd job for a guy like him?"

Rich raises an eyebrow at the change of topic, but Misha doesn't even blink. "It's a job alone, less chance of accidents happening when there's no one around to accidentally drink a gallon of bleach."

Jared winces, not sure if he should believe Misha, who may just be trying very hard to prove a point. At the same time, it fits with everything else, so it's probably true. He leaves it alone for now, pretends to have lost interest in the whole thing. He knows he isn't fooling Misha for a second.

Misha's eyes are on him as often as he can spare them, and Jared is honestly not sure what he did to deserve this level of concern from anyone, let alone Misha. It's something to keep safe. A little pinprick of light in the blackness of his life, He doesn't want to piss off Misha, doesn't want to disappoint him or make him think that his opinion doesn't matter. It does. It's just that right now, other things matter more.

He's well aware wanting to talk to Alex is selfish as fuck. It's not gonna do anything for Alex, isn't gonna make him any less dead in a few weeks time, whereas Jared gets to clear his conscience and live happily ever after. There's nothing he can do for Alex.

He thinks about it quietly through lunch, the rest of the afternoon until it's nearly dinner time. That's when he spots Tom outside, having a cigarette in the yard.

Tom. Impartial, uninvolved, yet he still knows more about this place than Jared. He may know something about Jensen that Misha and Rich are unwilling to share. 

Jared steps out with Tom, lighting up as the door slips shut behind him. Tom smiles when he turns around and sees it's Jared who joined him outside.

"Hey, man, how's it going?"

Jared drags on the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs before exhaling slowly. "Not bad, you?"

Tom nods. "Doing alright yeah."

Jared squares his shoulders, tries to get comfortable and remember how small talk works. He used to be a pro at this, play the caring dealer, the shoulder to cry on, the listening ear. They liked him. He was fair, didn't fuck with them but expected the same in return. Yeah, he gave a fuck, but in the meantime he abused their weaknesses to get their money. And he was good.

It's what he needs to do now, even if the specifics are different this time around.

"New cellie's driving me nuts," he says casually, looking at the fence a few feet away from them. He smokes slowly, waiting.

"Ah, yeah, you're rooming with Ackles, right?"

Jared hums in agreement, eyeing Tom quickly. "Guy's a freak. Keeps staring at me without talking. I thought he'd died the other day."

"He's a bit of a creeper." Tom looks down at his cigarette. "Think you wanna watch out for him, though. He's not all talk."

Jared frowns, feigning confusion. "How do you mean?"

"People get into accidents when he's around."

Jared resists the urge to roll his eyes at the by now familiar tag line that comes with Jensen. "Could just be a coincidence."

"Nah. Guy a few months ago, new guy, poor bastard thought he could have a piece of Ackles's ass." Tom winces before continuing. "He cornered Ackles in the gym, Ackles got away, a week later he's found in one of the big freezers in the kitchen. Barely alive, damn near frozen like a snowman."

"Maybe the door fell shut behind him?"

Tom shoots him a look. "He didn't work in the kitchen. There was no reason for him to be anywhere near that freezer."

Oh. "D'you think he did it?"

"Of course he did it. The guy was brand new and shiny from the outside, hadn't had the time to make enemies yet. Apart from Ackles."

"Did the guy die?"

"No. But he's still in the infirmary, and he'll probably never walk again." Tom flicks his cigarette away. "He's not one to play with."

"How long's he been in?"

Tom shrugs, looks unsure. "I don't know, a few years? Longer than me. Longer than Rich... Maybe four years?"

"No one seems to know what he's in for, though."

"Plenty of rumors and theories to go around."

"Which one would you put your money on?"

Tom narrows his eyes, as if he's thinking it over carefully. "He's cold, he just doesn't seem to give a fuck about anything."

"So that'd make him a..." Jared nudges.

"I think he's a serial killer."

Interesting. "Because he's cold? Everyone in here is kinda cold, man."

"Not like him. You said it yourself, you thought he was dead. It's like he has no limit, no conscience."

"Has he ever done something to you?"

"Fuck no. I'm not an idiot. I steer clear of Ackles at all times."

"I can't, he sleeps in the bunk below mine," Jared remarks dryly.

"He's not had a cellie before you, I think." Tom gives him a once over. "You're still in one piece."

"Thanks man." Jared rolls his eyes. "I feel the love."

"Sorry."

"No you're not. So is there anyone in C-Wing that was in that other wing with Ackles?"

"What wing? Oh! The one with all the maniacs."

"Yeah, that one."

"Well... there's Misha, but he wasn't there for very long." Nothing in Tom's face suggests he knows why Misha left so abruptly, and Jared isn't about to bring it up.

"Don't think there's anyone else," Tom says, "not in C-Wing. Most of the guys it's... once you're put away there you don't just walk back out."

"Why did Ackles?"

"Good question, no way did he convince anyone he suddenly turned into a docile little lamb."

"So what? Did he bribe them? Blackmail them?"

"I don't know, man, your guess is as good as mine." Tom looks past Jared through the windows. "We should head back inside. Chow time."

Jared nods. Tom hasn't exactly provided him with valuable information, but he does have an idea. If there's no one in C-Wing who can tell him about Jensen, the answer is obvious. Jared has unlimited access to Jensen's cell, the only place in the prison where Jensen may have hidden some personal things. Things that will give Jared an idea of what he's dealing with. He'll have to do it while Jensen is at work, and it's not gonna be easy but he thinks he can pull it off.

Would be easier if he could get Misha and Rich to help him out, but they won't, not if he's honest with them about what he's trying to do. He's been so busy trying to come up with a plan all day that he completely forgot why he needed a plan in the first place. Until he's handing out dinners and overhears some guards talking.

"...put him in his cell straight away. They told him they'd let him know as soon as a date was set, and he didn't even blink."

"Maybe he's accepted what's gonna happen to him."

"Could you? Man's gonna die. Soon. And he's gonna spend his last weeks in a cell with no contact."

"He can have visitors."

"'S a long way to come, man. Even for someone who's dying."

Jared swallows down the lump in his throat, or tries to, but the guards' words paint an upsetting picture of neverending darkness and suffocating loneliness. He can practically see Alex, alone in his cell, waiting for someone to tell him when he's going to die. 

It takes away any lingering doubts he may have had. He needs to talk to Alex, wants to be a familiar face in all of this even if he may just be the last face Alex will want to see right now. He still wants to know what Jensen's deal is, but he has different priorities now. He's running out of time. Alex is running out of time.

*

Misha seems to instinctively know something is up, as if he can smell Jared's determination in the air. He doesn't approach Jared, doesn't say a word, but Jared can feel eyes on him, knows Misha is trying to think of a way to stop him. He manages to get back to his cell without any confrontations, but he knows the biggest confrontation is waiting for him on the other side of these iron bars.

No time means no time to waste on being nice or subtle about it. Jensen has something Jared wants: a way into death row that's not a one way ticket. 

"What do you want?" He asks, as soon as the bars are shut, and the guards leave.

Jensen looks up from his book, not even a little confused. As if he'd been expecting that very question.

"A glass of whiskey and a number 4 from Whataburger." Jensen purses his lips for a moment. "Extra jalapeño ranch."

"Sucks to be you. What do you want from me?"

Jensen raises an eyebrow and licks his lower lip slowly. If Jared's waiting for a knee-jerk reaction, he's going to be waiting for a while. "Name your prize," he urges again.

"What exactly are you asking of me here?"

"I need to get into death row. Just once, but it needs to be soon."

Jensen considers him for a moment, his index finger tracing patterns on the cover of his book. "So you can talk to your friend."

_He's not my friend._ "Yes."

"I'mma have to pull a lot of strings for that," Jensen muses, green eyes glinting in the light.

"So what do you want in return?"

Jensen is silent for a moment before he answers. "What's it worth to you?"

For fuck's sake, he hasn't had one straight answer out of Jensen in over a week and he's about ready to punch his lights out. "Name. Your prize."

"What are you willing to give me?"

They hold each other's eyes for a long time, neither one of them willing to back down and let the other win, but in the end it's Jared who needs something, not Jensen.

"I'm not gonna kill anyone for you."

"That's it? Other than that you'll do anything I ask?" There's an almost manic glow in Jensen's eyes that makes Jared want to take it back, reconsider, because Tom was right, Jensen has no limits, and the one Jared just gave him is flimsy at best.

"Just tell me what you want?" Maybe it's the tone of his voice, maybe Jensen picks up on the defeat. One way or another, he's finally getting a straight answer, not that it's what he wants to hear.

"Blow me." Jensen's tone matches his own in tone and volume, but Jared knows Jensen isn't kidding. His mind pulls him in different directions, one side screaming no, the other picturing Alex alone in a cell.

"After lights out." He can't look at Jensen after that, doesn't want to see the smugness he knows he'll find on Jensen's face. Part of him can't believe he's agreeing to this, not even putting up a fight. It's as if he's trying to punish himself. Get right what he knows he can't fix. It could be worse, Jensen could've asked to fuck him instead, so it's not that bad.

Maybe he can even talk himself into liking it. Just because he refuses to admit it to himself doesn't mean Jensen hasn't drawn his eyes before. Maybe it's the lack of women in this place like Rich said, but even without that, Jensen isn't hard to look at. Rather him than Marcus, or Monster, or any of the other dirty fucks in here. At least Jensen doesn't smell.

He lies flat on his bunk, gearing himself up for what's to come, heart heavy in his throat, palms clammy against the sheets. He tries to distract himself by thinking about Sandy, get in the mood, but it's fucking wrong to think about his ex-girlfriend to mentally prepare himself for sucking dick. He doesn't need to do this, he can still back out, it's not as if he can actually do something to help Alex, Who does he think he is, thinking if Alex sees him it won't be so bad to die. It'll probably be worse to know that Jared had been there with Alex, that it had been his idea, but Alex will die and Jared gets to live.

It's a kind of guilt unlike anything he's ever felt in his life, even after his mother died, because he knew on some level that wasn't his fault. He couldn't have stopped it. There was nothing he could have done that would have been a reason for his mom to want to live, he knows that, even if it took him a while to get there. It's still sad, and it still hurts, but he absolved himself of blame so it's not nearly as bad. He is directly to blame for Alex's situation though, and, fuck, if Alex got the chance between a blow job or lethal injection now...

It pales in comparison in a way that makes his cheeks flush at how selfish he's being. If there's even the smallest thing Jared can do for Alex right now, he'll do it. He has to.

The lights switch off too soon, and Jared lies in the darkness, breathing harshly, waiting for any sound to indicate that Jensen is moving. Covers shift on the bunk below his, and Jared holds his breath, desperately trying to stay in control of the panic that lurks under his veins.

"Have you ever done anything with another man?" Jensen asks softly, deliberately keeping his voice low so his words don't carry. 

"No." His heart thuds against his rib cage in a way that vibrates through his entire body.

"Don't lie." The threat is implicit and only serves to wind Jared up more. How would Jensen have any way of knowing whether that was a lie? "Jared?"

He swallows once, twice, three times until his throat feels as if it may work. "Hand job when I was thirteen. And I made out with a guy on a dare once when I was drunk. That's it."

Silence then, as if Jensen is considering his reply. 

"You'd kinda suck at blow jobs then, hm? No pun intended."

It probably shouldn't sting to have his non-existent blow job skills insulted like that, but nothing about his responses to Jensen surprises him anymore.

"How about you let me sleep on it," Jensen says, voice light as if he's just considering what's for breakfast tomorrow. 

Sleep on it? And what, change his mind tomorrow? Get Jared to take some kind of lessons so that he'll be more satisfying? He's so fucking tempted to jump out of his bunk and demand what the fuck. Name your prize doesn't mean play with me until you get tired of it, but that seems to be exactly what Jensen's doing.

"Jared?"

"Why can't you just make up your mind?" He's impressed by how composed he sounds, given that his blood is boiling, and his jaw is clenched painfully tight.

"I have something you want, something I can ask something for in return. Wanna make sure I choose the right thing, you know? Opportunities like these don't come every day."

"As if you wouldn't just take what you wanted even if you didn't have any kind of leverage," Jared mumbles, well-aware that Jensen can hear him without having to try very hard. On some level, he really is just trying to piss Jensen off as much as he's pissed Jared off.

"Yeah?" Jensen's voice still sounds the same, but Jared really doesn't like where their conversation is going right now. "Would that make it easier for you? If I forced you onto your knees with a knife at your throat? Because it wouldn't be your decision so it wouldn't be anything you'd have to think about?"

He shudders at the thought of that, being forced into anything, especially something like that, but Jensen isn't entirely wrong. It wouldn't be his choice, and he could blame it all on Jensen. Whereas now, he's pretty much offering himself on a silver platter to get what he wants. 

"What is it about me that made you think I would try to make this easy on you?"

"You just wanna get your dick sucked, I don't see why it matters how you achieve that."

"And that's where you're wrong. If I just wanted my dick sucked there are plenty of people in here that would gladly be of service."

"But you... want it to be me?" Jared frowns at the ceiling in confusion, quite glad Jensen can't see his face right now.

"Don't flatter yourself. I want it to be you because you don't want it to be you. It's almost poetic, don't you think?"

"You're fucking insane."

"It is, though. You wanna talk to your friend, who is going to die very soon. In order to get what you want, you just need to make a sacrifice."

Tom was so fucking right about Jensen. He's just playing chess with every single person around him, probably even the guards. No one's immune or absolved. No one can hide. Misha was right too, Jared is in way over his head, and he is not going to make it back out in one piece, Jensen won't let him.

"So... what then? What do you want?"

"I said I'll think about it, get it just right."

"You realize I don't have an unlimited supply of time on my side here, don't you?"

"Wrong. _You_ have all the time in the world. It's your friend who doesn't."

"Fuck you." As if he needs the reminder. As if it contributes anything at all to have it rubbed in some more. As if he isn't blaming himself enough as it is.

"I appreciate the offer, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Don't tie your panties in a knot. I'm just saying, I can help you out on short notice, and take my time thinking about what I want in return."

"Do you hear yourself talk? Are you _trying_ to be Marlon Brando? You gonna tell me it's not personal but business next?"

"It is personal," Jensen replies easily, and Jared has no trouble picturing the smirk on his face. "For both of us but more so for you I think. Now, will you accept this offer you can't refuse?"

Jared is going to kill him. Fuck it, if he kills Jensen now he'll end up on death row himself, and it'll probably be much easier to talk to Alex without anyone's help. Talk about killing two birds with one stone. Or killing one bird and getting to talk to the other. Or something. He should stay away from metaphors maybe. 

"There are limits to my patience, Jared. What's it gonna be?"

"Okay," he breathes out, ignoring everything in him that screams he is making the worst decision he could possibly make, giving Jensen carte blanche to do whatever the fuck he pleases. _Punishment._ It's uncanny how Jensen knows exactly how to push his buttons and make him agree to things he wouldn't even have considered mere weeks ago. Here's someone who knows what he's doing, and Jared is still not ruling out the option where Jensen is a Mafioso. Don Ackles, it has an appropriately scary ring to it.

"Good. I'll look into it tomorrow, think we can have you on death row by the end of the week." Jensen snickers before correcting himself. "In death row. Not _on_ death row, thought wouldn't that just solve all of your problems right now?"

"I agreed. You can shut up now." Jared really just wants to sleep so he won't have to deal with every thought in his head anymore. Feels like he's just voluntarily tied a noose around his own neck, and now he's just waiting for Jensen to knock the chair away from under his feet. He's given Jensen all the power, even though he knows it's a mistake. It can't end well, but he needs to do something, needs to see Alex because he doesn't think he can live with this kind of guilt. He never got to talk to the girl, he saw her crying mother and destroyed-looking father at his trial, saw her brothers huddle together with red eyes, He knows it's an image that will stay with him forever, will follow him into every corner of the world, every corner of his mind. A constant reminder of what he took away from those people. Doesn't matter that he hadn't meant to. The road to hell and all of that shit.

Jensen shuts up – thank fuck for that – but sleep eludes Jared for a long time. He keeps trying to rationalize things for himself, come up with reasons why this is the best solution he could have come up with, but it all comes back to the terrifying thought of Ackles owns my ass. He manages sleep eventually, somehow, but it's restless and he keeps waking up, because he's tangled in the sheets and can't move anymore. It ties in with his nightmares about being caught in sticky spider webs entirely too well. It's a relief when he's allowed to leave his cell the next morning, even if he's going to have to face up to Jensen at some point. It doesn't have to be right now, and just being away from him even for a little while is a luxury he is going to cherish.

*

Misha and Rich are already in the showers, both of them eyeing him suspiciously when he comes in and greets them as if nothing is wrong. He takes his time soaping up his hair, not surprised he's beginning to think of the never warm enough water with something akin to affection. He's settling in just fine.

"You cut a deal with Ackles then?" Misha asks him, resignation thick in his voice.

"What makes you think that?"

"You have the look of someone who's sealed their fate."

"We came to an agreement," Jared offers, not interested in discussing the specifics, because he knows both of them are going to blow up and point out how fucking insanely naive he's being. It's not naive if he knows exactly what he's walking into, is it?

"The fuck does that mean?" Rich mutters, shaking wet hair out of his eyes.

"It means he's gonna get me into death row so I can talk to Alex."

"Aaand?"

Misha's glaring daggers at him through the steam, and Jared can't quite blame him. Misha warned him, and Jared completely and utterly ignored every well-meant word and got himself into trouble anyway. 

"And he's gonna think of what he wants in return."

"He's gonna," Rich's eyes go comically wide and he turns his head to Misha, as if to confirm that he heard that right. "He's gonna _think_ about it? You didn't – Jesus Christ, Nemo that's not an agreement, that's a fucking suicide pact!"

"I told him I wouldn't kill anyone for him," Jared shrugs, not surprised by their reaction.

"That is the one thing you singled out? The one thing you were worried about? Are you absolutely insane?"

"Don't feel like you have to sugarcoat it or anything," Jared bites out sarcastically. "I considered my options and this seemed like the best solution."

"He's fucking serious!" Rich points at him, gaping like a fish. "The best solution? Why don't you just run for the fence now so you get gunned down with at least the smell of freedom in your nose? He _considered his options._ He's ripe for the psych ward."

"Is it really worth it?" Misha asks him, voice flat.

"It might be."

"And that's enough." It's not a question, a statement if anything, and Jared thinks maybe Misha does get it on some level, may have done the same in Jared's shoes, or can at least sort of see where he's coming from.

"It is."

Misha nods, ignores Rich's dumbfounded look and switches off his shower. "Just be careful. Don't believe anything he says."

"I never do."

He watches Misha and Rich go, but takes a few more minutes under the shower, stretching the wonderful feeling of being alone without being isolated, until he really can't stay any longer. He's a little late rushing into the kitchen, but no one says anything, and Rich just points at his spot behind the counter, so he can start dishing out food. 

When it's Jensen's turn to collect his breakfast, Jared gets an appraising look and a calculating stare in return for a portion of scrambled eggs and green beans. No pancakes for Jensen. Or cereal. He always goes for the eggs. But no bacon. Or sausages. In fact, he may be vegetarian, Jared can't remember him ever asking for a meat dish. It's completely irrelevant, but it's a little piece of information he didn't have five minutes ago, and he files it away under the label 'Jensen'. The pile of 'Jensen' files that lives in his mind is fucking pathetic at best, but hopefully he will be able to keep adding to it. 

"Come find me when you're done here?" Jensen asks, walking off before Jared has a chance to reply. Alright then.

Rich continues to shoot him worried glances until the last prisoner in line has received his breakfast, but he doesn't say a word when Jared smiles apologetically and takes his breakfast with him to join Jensen at his table.

He puts his tray down and sits across from Jensen, not surprised at all that Jensen eats on his own. Jensen is always on his own, unless he's asleep, and that one is not by choice. Not by Jared's fucking choice either. At least Jensen doesn't snore. He raises his eyebrows at Jensen expectantly, but Jensen doesn't even spare him a glance, examining his eggs instead.

"You made these?"

Jared shrugs. "Probably not these exactly, made some. Why?"

Jensen takes a bite, lifting his eyes up to Jared as he chews slowly. "Don't leave your day job just yet to become a cook."

"Ha fucking ha."

"I know. I am quite hilarious."

"Yeah, you're just a ball of laughter and joy." And also death and impending doom.

"Day after tomorrow. You'll take my shift delivering lunch to the hole and death row."

Fucking hell, how did he manage that so quickly? It's _breakfast_ now for fuck's sake, Jensen's barely been out of his cell long enough to even talk to someone, let alone bribe someone into letting him trade shifts with someone. "O-kay?"

"You seem surprised," Jensen narrows his eyes for a moment before relaxing. "I'm gonna ignore it. Couldn't care less really."

"How will this work then?"

Jensen looks at him as if he's slow, and Jared's had enough of that so far this morning to last him to the end of the month. "You get taken to the main kitchen by a guard, you push a trolley with lunches to the correct building. You do the hole first and get to stall a little on death row if you're quick about the rest of it. You're guaranteed at least five minutes."

Five minutes. Sounds like nothing, but he'll make them count. He's not entirely sure he could stand to be in Alex's presence any longer than that anyway. The guilt will probably eat him alive before he has to leave again.

"Okay," Jared nods, searching Jensen's face for any hints that show Jensen is fucking with him or setting him up. He's not sure he would be able to find any even if that was Jensen's plan. He is spectacularly outwitted and out of his depth, which is a fucking surreal experience that's disorienting at the best of times and completely terrifying the rest of the time.

"Any other stupid questions?"

"There's no such thing as a stupid question."

The pitying look Jensen gives him next makes him want to squeeze his hands around Jensen's throat until he stops being such an arrogant, smug son of a bitch. 

"Whatever makes you sleep at night, Jared. You can leave now."

Jared's eyes nearly pop out of his head. Fuck's sake, he's being dismissed like a schoolboy, and Jensen seems to think it's perfectly acceptable behavior. That has to come from years of getting away with this. There's a criminal career lurking behind those eyes, a rap sheet that would put Ted Bundy to shame, and Jared wants – needs – to know every last detail about it. 

He picks up his tray, glaring at Jensen, but he walks away, back to standing behind the counter like a kicked puppy abandoned on the side of the highway. He feels as pathetic as one.

There's no sympathy to be found with Misha and Rich, not that he was expecting any, but it does make him doubt what he's doing a little bit. He wouldn't want to risk two friendships over this, not in here, where friendships are rarer than diamonds and trust is like air; no one seems to be looking for it but everyone needs it to survive. It'd be foolish to risk that, because he has fifteen years left here, and harsh as it sounds, he can't say the same for Alex.

He watches them in silence as he picks at the rest of his breakfast, taking in how close they appear without being physically close, at least at the moment. They seem perfectly in tune, aware of each other at all times, and they interact with an ease and familiarity Jared has never encountered, not even between family members that have spent most of their lives together. It's a connection that clearly runs a lot deeper, and it has to come from a lot of shared badness. If what happened to Misha happened in that other wing, that means he probably didn't know Rich yet at the time so... how? How did he manage to trust another prisoner implicitly like this, after an experience like that? Sure, Rich is a nice guy, and there is no doubt in Jared's mind that Rich would take a bullet for Misha and vice versa but to trust after... He envies them a little, not to the point of begrudging them their relationship, he just wishes he had something like that of his own.

He entertains the idea of having such a friendship with Jensen for a moment before laughing the idea off. It's ridiculous. He will never trust Jensen, not even with little things, let alone with his life the way Rich and Misha trust each other with theirs.

Not in this lifetime, and the fact that he has signed his fate over to Jensen right now has nothing to do with trust. It's necessity, and if anything, he actively mistrusts Jensen's motives about this whole thing, knows it's gonna turn on him and bite him in the ass. It's not the same, and it never will be.

"You thinking big thoughts, Nemo?" 

He looks up at Rich who's half-hidden behind his coffee cup. "Just thinking."

"He found a way to get you in, hm?"

"Yeah," Jared nods, putting his fork back down, because he's just not hungry and the thought of bacon and hash browns just makes him want to be sick. " _How_ though? He's barely been out of his cell and he already managed to set this up?"

"He works in mysterious ways," Rich says, stealing some bacon off Jared's plate.

"Think you have him confused with God there," Misha comments dryly, but the frown doesn't leave his face.

"I'll take his lunch shift on Thursday, deliver it to the hole, and he said I'd have some time on death row to talk to Alex."

"Do you know what you're going to say?" Misha asks him.

"No." Not a fucking clue. But he's got the better part of two days to think about it.

*

And thinking about it he does. It's on his mind for the rest of the day. It's still there when he's locked into his cell with Jensen. While he brushes his teeth and shaves, and while Jensen blatantly ignores him and doesn't say one word to him.

He keeps silent as well, not into the idea of waking sleeping dogs, plus he needs to seriously think about what he's going to say to Alex. Chances are Alex won't even know Jared is here, in the same prison, and if that's the case he will be freaked out to see Jared and totally unprepared which gives Jared an advantage he didn't even want. He should apologize, but how? What are the right words to convey 'I'm sorry my actions have led to your death'? There is no handbook for this, no etiquette on how to deal or what to say and he seems unable to come up with anything himself. He doesn't want to undermine the severity of the situation, but he also doesn't want to make Alex's last weeks worse. He doesn't want to hint at hope, because there is none. He can't create any. He's managed to set himself up for failure in a very epic way. He should get some sort of goddamned medal or something.

When he dreams, he dreams about Alex screaming at him, accusing Jared of killing him. He dreams of himself shooting Alex in the head while Alex begs him not to. The worst one though, the one that cuts through his skin and leaves him with the worst afterimages is the one where Alex is crying in the corner of his cell, rocking himself on the floor, and Jared's trying to talk to him, but no sound will come out of his mouth. That's the one he doesn't come back from, the one that keeps him awake for the rest of the night, until he's completely exhausted by the time he needs to get up.

His shower passes in a haze, and he just barely recognizes that neither Misha nor Rich are there. They're already in the kitchen when he gets there. Before he can even ask what he should be doing right now, Rich pulls him aside and sits him down at a table at the back of the kitchen. Rich puts a cup of coffee and a bowl of cereal in front of him, then leaves him alone with Misha. As far as interventions go, these two kind of fail at subtle. Completely.

"Morning," Misha says, offering him a small smile. "You should eat, you look like shit."

"What's going on?" He feels cornered, and it's not agreeing with him at all. 

"Eat." Misha raises an eyebrow, daring Jared to argue, and Jared finds he simply doesn't have the energy to argue at this point.

"Did you get any sleep at all?"

"Nightmares."

"Of course. Alex?"

"Pretty much."

Misha watches him while he eats, or fights with his food is more accurate.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" Misha asks gently, holding up a hand to say he isn't finished yet. "You've gone through impressive lengths to talk to him, yet you don't know what you want to say. What do you want?"

"I wanna make it less bad." He frowns at his words, but all he gets from Misha is a sympathetic look.

"He's gonna die, Jared. Doesn't matter what you say to him or how often you get to see him. He is going to die."

"I know that."

"I know you do. But it means you get one shot at this, just the one, and you can't mess it up."

He shakes his head in response. "Do you think I don't know that? I don't wanna make it worse on him. Don't want to make his last weeks worse in any way. If I can't make it better I need to aim to not make it worse..."

"Yeah, you do."

"I just wanna tell him I'm sorry," Jared shrugs, but his insides turn to ice whenever he thinks of Alex in anything other than an abstract way.

"So tell him that. What else?"

"I want him to know if I could fix it I would."

"But you can't."

"No, but I still would if I could."

Misha nods, sipping his coffee slowly. "Those are the most important things. Everything else... it'll come to you when you're there."

"What if it doesn't?"

"It will. It's the kind of thing you just can't prepare for, 'cause it needs to come... well fuck me for the cliché, but it needs to come from the heart. You can't rehearse that."

It's a good point, but what if he finally gets to see Alex, and the words won't come out? What if he's at a complete loss as to what to say? It'll be worse for both of them than if he hadn't gotten to see Alex in the first place.

"Jared? Cut it the fuck out. Stop fretting about what you can't fix."

_How_ the fuck does that even work?

"It'll come to you. You will figure it out, but the more you stress about it, the worse it's going to be."

"Well you just fucking know the answers to everything, don't you?" He's pissed off, and it's not Misha's fault, but he's _here_.

"I never said-"

"No, but you do. You always know what's best when it comes to me, but you won't say a fucking word about you, because _that_ is too personal, and you don't wanna deal with that." Frustration and fear collide under his skin, pouring out of him with every word, and he can't stop, just keeps going.

"I've told you stuff-"

"Yeah, non-specific vague as hell stuff that wasn't that difficult to guess in the first place. Nothing that actually matters."

"I don't know why you-"

"I had to hear from Jensen what happened to you in E-Wing." As soon as the words are out, he wants to rip out his tongue and burn it on an open fire. _Fuck_ , what on earth possessed him to say that?

Misha's reaction is instant, his face losing any kind of expression, color draining from him slowly, until he might as well be looking at a plaster mask. 

"Yeah, how about you shut the fuck up, Jared?" He slams his hand down on the table, eyes freezing cold but spitting fire at the same time. "You think you're allowed to talk to me like that because... because why? 'Cause I don't swing my fists every chance I get to prove to everyone how much of a tough guy I am? Let me tell you something. You're not fooling anyone. Not a con in this place who can't see behind that mask you try so hard to keep in place. You're not fooling anyone but you."

Jared recoils from the words as if he's been slapped in the face, and, in reality, he would have preferred a slap to the face to this. It's not Misha's fault, for fuck's sake, the guy is just trying to help Jared, and Jared is actively trying to hurt him. Trying to pick at things that are none of his business in the first place, things that he promised Rich he wouldn't bring up in conversation ever. 

"I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I know," Misha says, teeth gritted and fingers clenched tightly around his mug. "Just trying to help, I'm not trying to make things worse for you."

"I know." 

"I think you'll be alright," Misha offers, trying for a small, encouraging smile. "You'll know what to say when you need to say it, and you'll be fine."

"Thank you." He catches Rich's eye, who probably came to check on them after Misha's little outburst but is keeping his distance now. It's an implicit warning Jared doesn't need. He'd never actually do anything to fuck Misha over. Apart from the bit where he just told Misha he knows about what happened to him. About that, "I won't tell anyone. I haven't, and I'm not going to."

Misha watches him silently, eyes dull in their sockets, as if someone has snuffed the light out behind them, and Jared knows just who that was this time. He hates himself for it. If he had been expecting any kind of answer, or even an acknowledgment of the fact that he just said something, he's disappointed. Misha just keeps looking, until Jared finally has to look away because it's too awkward, and he simply can't deal with the weight of that stare. Misha's not going to confront him about it, hell, he's probably trying as best he can to forget Jared ever mentioned it, so Jared will let him. It's Rich he has to worry about anyway, and he knows it when he looks into dark, angry eyes, knows there's no avoiding Rich's temper. 

He's not mistaken when Rich walks over quickly, already in Jared's face, hand fisted in Jared's hoodie before Jared can even register what's happening. 

"What the _fuck_ did I tell you?"

Not the time for nicknames now, not that Jared is surprised. He raises his hand in apology, trying to tell Rich he's aware he fucked up, and he's really sorry, when suddenly Rich is pulled off of him and slammed into a nearby fridge by Misha. Misha's face is twisted with anger in a way it hadn't been a moment before, when he was talking to Jared, but right now, Jared is genuinely worried for Rich.

"What was that?" Misha hisses, his hands on Rich's chest holding him in place. "You told him what exactly?"

Oh. Oh fuck. Rich seems to catch on to what he just said, too, if the panic that flashes over his face is anything to go by. "I didn't tell him what happened. He just... Ackles told him, and he mentioned it, and I told him to shut up about it."

"He did," Jared nods, trying to help. "There was no-"

"Shut your mouth. I'm not talking to you," Misha says without looking over at Jared. 

Jared shrinks back in his seat, watching them warily but very silently.

"You knew he knew, and you didn't tell me?"

"Why does it matter?" Rich asks, desperate edge to his voice that fuels Jared's worry even more. "So, he knew. It doesn't change anything."

"He _knew_ ," Misha grinds out, hands relaxing on Rich's chest, but it looks more like defeat than any good kind of relaxing. "He knew, and I didn't know that he knew. And he talked to me, and he looked at me and..." His voice trails off, and he shakes his head, looking down at his hands. Jared sees the shiver that runs through him, and he hates himself for having caused this. 

Rich puts a hand on Misha's arm, fingers squeezing softly, and from the way Rich's eyes are wide with concern and pain it's not difficult to see he has no idea what to do or say to make this right. "I'm sorry, Mish. I didn't think. Thought it would be easier on you if you didn't know that he knew."

"Why didn't I get a say in that?" Misha sounds hoarse, and Jared can't see his face, but he can taste the held-back tears in Misha's words. "Why did you take that away from me? Am I still so bad that it's better not to discuss things with me, because I may fall apart? Really?"

Jared really wants to leave now, not be here, feels like a conversation that isn't meant for his ears even if he is the one that started this in the first place. He shouldn't be here, but he doesn't want to get up and draw attention to himself. 

"No," Rich says firmly, ducking his head to catch Misha's eyes. "You aren't. Don't think that, _I_ don't think that."

"Then why?"

"Because I'm an idiot, and I thought it would hurt you less if you didn't know. And if he'd have kept his fucking mouth shut I-"

"You could've kept the secret a bit longer," Misha finishes for him. "How much of an idiot do you think I feel like right now?"

"I'm sorry," Rich whispers, trying to reach out, but Misha steps back enough that he can't.

"Yeah," Misha nods. "Me too." And with that he disappears, walks away in the direction of a guard. He says something Jared can't hear, and the guard nods and walks him to the door, presumably back to the cell block.

As soon as Misha disappears from sight, Jared glances at Rich warily, expecting to see anger, or rather, a fist flying towards him. Neither of those happen, instead, Rich doesn't even spare him a glance before he turns around and walks away. For a fleeting moment, Jared thinks he might be better off spending the next fifteen years in solitary so he can't mess up any more lives. He'd probably find a way even in isolation from everyone else. He's just that good at it.

He doesn't see Rich for the rest of the morning, and he makes no effort to seek Rich out himself. It's a coward move, but he gets Tom to dish out lunch with Rich, while Jared cleans up in the back. It's nearly four, before Jared decides he needs to find a way to fix this, can't let this fuck up because of him. He corners Rich when he steps out of the supply closet. Doesn't give him a chance to say something or push past him.

"You should go back to your cell. Dinner's baking, there's pretty much nothing left to do. We can dish out and clean up without you."

Rich looks like he wants to argue just for the sake of arguing, but it's not difficult to see he really wants to leave. He doesn't respond, doesn't say a word, and Jared can't really blame him for still being angry. Rich nods and walks off, leaving Jared in the narrow hallway between the closet and the kitchen, hoping that they will be able to fix things.

He was right about them being perfectly okay without Misha and Rich. It takes a bit longer to clean the kitchen, but they're fine. When he finally makes it back to his cell, he glances into Misha and Rich's to find Misha stretched out on the top bunk facing the wall, and Rich sitting on the bottom bunk staring at the floor. 

Jensen eyes him carefully when he walks into their cell but he doesn't say anything until Jared has brushed his teeth and is already in his bunk. 

"So... trying to break up the happy couple?"

He doesn't respond, well aware that Jensen can still change his mind if it's not yet tomorrow, and if Jared is too straightforward he just might do that.

"You shouldn't have told Collins what I told you."

"Oh my _God_ , do you have eyes and ears everywhere?"

"Stop avoiding the issue. Why would you say that?"

"Why do you care?"

"Because a conflict between the two of them means a disruption in the cell block, which will lead to uncertainty, which will fuel hostility and eventually violence. You knocked over the first domino, and now you can just stand back and watch the rest of them fall."

"They're just two people out of nearly a hundred." Trying to rationalize it doesn't make the uneasy feeling go away.

"Two people that are part of the delicate balance in this place. They rupture, and suddenly everything changes. It can't not. Like the kitchen, they've been in charge of that kitchen for nearly two years, and it runs, it works, because of them."

"What do you mean they run it?"

Jensen sighs exasperatedly, as if Jared is the biggest idiot he's ever had the displeasure of talking to. "When Collins came here, and they got assigned to the same cell, his head doctor thought he needed some responsibility, some control over something, so he proposed they renew the kitchen staff that was on at the time and was involved in some mysterious deaths." 

"And they agreed." Seems like a big decision, a lot of responsibility, but he can kinda see how it may have helped Misha.

"They did, but they said he shouldn't do it alone, so he did it with Rich. From that day on, they were in charge of who was hired for the kitchen, even though the staff can veto their decisions obviously, they've got quite a bit of leeway."

"But that means..."

"Means they hired you, yeah, asked for you specifically, though I'm not sure why they took you in like a lost little puppy, but, hey, it seems to have worked out for all of you. Or seemed to have."

"They'll fix it," Jared says, sounding a lot more sure than he feels. He just... doesn't quite think anything he does could break the two of them beyond repair. He simply doesn't over-estimate his own importance like that. They are much stronger than anything he can throw at them. But then again, Misha is angry over something Rich did, or didn't do, and even if it relates to Jared, he's aware that it has nothing to do with him, and it's Rich who hurt Misha, not him.

"You're too optimistic for this place," Jensen snorts, shifting in his bunk. "You can be their bridesmaid when the big day rolls around."

"Fuck you."

"In your dreams."

"More like my nightmares," Jared huffs.

"Keep telling yourself that, Jay."

Jensen sounds so damn sure of himself, it makes Jared wonder if he's unintentionally giving off signals. Sure, he's looked a few times, but it's because Jensen is in his face all the damn time, everywhere he turns in this cell. Now he wonders if Jensen looks too, he can't remember.

"Have _you_ ever done anything with a man?" The words are out before he has a chance to consider whether this is such a great idea right now. He holds his breath, waiting for Jensen's answer, heart in his throat, because what if he's just fucked up the last chance he had to speak to Alex? 

"Why do you care? You're obviously not interested in any man, nevermind that there are no women around here."

"There are women around here," Jared mumbles under his breath, but of course Jensen picks up on it anyway.

"You planning to attack one of the nurses? The Sunday lunch lady? Best stop talking now then, or I'mma have to report you." 

It's the smugness that drips off of every single word that comes out of Jensen's mouth that has Jared wanting to punch his lights out all the damn time. Now is no different.

"I'm not gonna attack anybody."

"You think you'll just be your charming self, and they will fall at your feet? I hate to break it to you, man, but in this setting, handcuffs are just not a turn on."

"I didn't say I wanted anything from them. I'm just pointing out that there _are_ actually women in here."

"Lot of good it'll do us, hm?"

"Whatever."

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

Jared rolls his eyes. "Just shut the fuck up."

"You're the one that started asking questions. You're the one who's just too damn curious for his own good."

"Fine, I've changed my mind. I don't give a fuck. You can fuck the entire cell block if you want to. I couldn't care less."

Jensen is silent for a moment before responding. "Yeah, no, I can hear that loud and clear."

Jared doesn't respond, and it works in keeping Jensen quiet, but only for a little while.

"So, what's your game plan for tomorrow then?"

He really doesn't want to discuss this with Jensen, but he figures he owes it to Jensen in a way. "Gonna apologize, see if there's anything I can do for him."

"They should make Hallmark cards for occasions like this. 'I'm sorry I landed you on death row. Chin up.'"

Jared would reply to that if he knew what to say. 

"I think there's a business in that. It's right next to 'I shouldn't have killed your daughter but I was broke' and 'Dear mom, this is me writing you from prison like I promised. Please send smokes.'"

"You should do stand up, you're hilarious," Jared remarks dryly.

"I might sign up for the prison talent day," Jensen says casually, and it's in that tone that makes Jared unsure whether he's joking. 

"Just don't miss your shot," Jensen continues. "You don't get a second chance, I can't swing it again... or maybe I could but I don't want to."

"I won't fuck it up." He might. He very well might but he's not going to think about it. What's the worst that could happen, it's not as if they can kill Alex twice, right?

"Have you decided what you want in return yet?" He asks tentatively, not sure if he really wants to hear the answer.

"You shouldn't rush a man, Jared. It might lead to rash decisions everyone will come to regret."

"Was that a threat?"

"I don't know, do you feel threatened?"

Threatened, intimidated, outwitted, cornered, every single step of the way? Fuck yes! "You seem to be incapable of giving any straightforward answer ever."

"Where's the fun in that? Now you get to guess, it's like a game."

"Not sure I wanna play."

"I think you do. Yeah, you wanna play, you know you do." 

"I don't."

"Are you aware you sound a lot like a three year old?"

"Whatever floats your boat, man, I don't care."

"Ah, sarcasm. Clever."

Okay so fine, he's no match for Jensen when it comes to sarcasm.

Shouldn't come as a surprise even after such a short time. "Just shut up. Sleep or something." 

Jensen gets up from his bunk and leans back against the wall, speculative eyes on Jared. "When word gets out you broke up Bonnie and Clyde, your popularity rating is going to drop below zero."

"I didn't break anyone up," Jared says, hoping he's right about that. "They'll be alright, work it out."

Jensen's eyebrows raise before his face slips back to annoyance. "If I forced you to suck me off, what would I be doing?"

Jared grits his teeth, fed up with the way Jensen keeps talking to him like he's stupid. "You'd be making up your mind."

"Cute. Also wrong." Jensen glances out of the cell, before his eyes settle back on Jared. "I'd be taking away your choice." 

They've already been over this. Maybe Jensen's going senile.

"Now, if a couple of men bend another man over a kitchen counter and do what they please with him, what're they doing?"

Jared's stomach clenches uncomfortably, images flashing before his eyes no matter how hard he tries to stop them. Fortunately Jensen saves him the trouble of having to respond.

"They'd be taking away his choice." Jensen sucks his lips into his mouth, and Jared can't figure out whether Jensen finds this entire thing massively amusing, or whether he's genuinely worried. The latter seems unlikely but still...

"So if a man's best friend, the only person he trusts, decides to withhold information from him _for his own good_ , tell me Jared, what's he doing?"

Jared winces before he can stop himself, suddenly understanding Misha's response more than he wants to. Can see the severity of what's happened, of what he's done, but it's too late to take it back now. 

Jensen pushes away from the wall, drawing Jared's attention away from his thoughts back to Jensen.

"Well, you best get some sleep. Big day tomorrow." Jensen wiggles his eyebrows, and Jared pictures his hands around that slender throat, squeezing until the smirk melts off his face. 

Jensen seems oblivious to Jared's murderous thoughts while he brushes his teeth and settles into his bunk. Jared hears pages of a book flicking, but his thoughts are too loud for him to focus on anything else. Attention caught between Alex on one hand, and Misha and Rich on the other. Seems from the moment he set foot in here everything started blowing up around him. He wasn't even trying.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Candygramme! All remaining mistakes are my own.

It's long after lights out when he finally falls asleep, blissfully void of dreams all night. If he does dream, he's forgotten about it by the time a guard shows up to take him to the showers. Before he leaves the cell, he glances over his shoulder to find Jensen observing him quietly, looking alert as ever, and Jared wonders - not for the first time - whether Jensen ever sleeps at all.

He doesn't have more time to think about it, rushes out of the cell even if he's not at all eager to start the day. The amount of ways in which today can go wrong almost makes him wish he could just stay locked up in his cell instead.

No such luxuries, a fact underlined by what he encounters in the shower. As soon as he's stripped he steps into the shower room he's been using since he came here. Where Misha showers in the corner nearest the entrance with Rich next to him. Not today. Today, Misha is in the far corner, facing the wall, shoulders tense and he doesn't acknowledge Jared's arrival at all. Rich is on the opposite side on his own and Jared gasps softly when he spots the bruise coloring the right side of Rich's face.

Rich looks over at him sharply, eyes hard as nails flying over Jared quickly, before they settle back on Misha's back without a word.

Jared swallows back whatever is about to slip out of his mouth. Fucking hell. He fucked up big time. He takes his place under the shower, turning his back to the room as much for himself as for them.

Misha leaves a few moments later, and it alleviates some of the tension hanging in the room like a thick mist. Jared waits a few minutes, until he hears Misha leave the changing room, before he turns around to Rich. Rich doesn't look at him, eyes focused in the general direction of the changing room as if he can make Misha come back to him with the power of his mind.

"I'm sorry," Jared mutters, barely audible over the splatter of water on the tiles. Rich looks at him then, frown on his face, dark black bruise making the white of his eye too damn white.

"Look, Nemo, you're a dick for saying that shit to him," Rich says, sounding tired. "And much as I'd like to rip off your balls and feed them to you, this is all me. I did this."

"Yeah, but-"

"No fucking yes but," Rich snaps. "Leave it alone, alright? It ain't yours to fix, so just leave it alone."

The 'leave us alone' goes unsaid, but it doesn't need saying. Rich walks off quickly without another word, leaving Jared alone to finish his shower. He should focus. He's seeing Alex later today, and while he really wants to do anything he can to make this better, this is his only shot at talking to Alex, and he can't waste it. Not for anything. 

He finishes quickly, drying himself off and slipping into his sweats and t-shirt in record time. He's still the last one to join the kitchen crew. 

Rich is setting up the server counter with Tom, slapping down stacks of shitty plastic plates, anger radiating off him. Jared considers joining them, but he doesn't really want to get in Rich's direct line of fire right now.

He passes the counter, trailing to the back instead, where he finds Misha grilling sausages, apron sloppily tied around him, hair pulled back. Just like every morning. But really not.

Jared shifts where he's standing, not sure if he should say something or just find something useful to do. He doesn't get more time to decide when Misha looks at him over his shoulder, pale skin, eyes bloodshot, dark circles around them as if he hasn't slept all night.

"Hi," Jared says quickly, offering a small smile that is met with a nod from Misha. He takes a deep breath. "You want some help with that?"

Misha looks back at the sausages, flipping them over quickly with practiced ease. "Sure." He nods at the opened carton of sausages next to him.

Jared finds a pan and sets up next to Misha. A few minutes later he has his own sausages frying away. They cook in silence for a while, until Jared can't keep his mouth shut any longer. "I'm-"

"Don't," Misha whispers, shaking his head slightly. "It's fine."

Jared gapes, spatula suspended in mid-air. "It's not. I... and then... no, it's _not_."

Misha sighs and glances at Jared quickly, exhaustion tightening his face. "Okay, it's not. It will be. Quit worrying about it, okay?"

"I'm sorry, man. Jensen said-"

Misha turns to him then, eyes spitting anger, almost enough to make Jared take a step back. "I don't fucking care what _Jensen_ said. I told you he was full of shit. He's playing you, and if you wanna be played, go for it." He turns the fire under his pan off. 

"Sorry."

"And stop apologizing, or I swear to God I'll push you into a frying pan."

"All accident like?" Jared asks, keeping his voice light, hoping Misha will get the joke even if it's a stupid one.

Misha snorts, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, exactly like that."

Jared smiles, looks back at his sausages feeling slightly better than before. This feeling disappears quickly when Tom comes to fetch him to cover the service counter with Rich. He walks to the front, dragging his heels. Even though neither of them seems to be angry at him, he's still caught in the middle of the mess he effortlessly created.

Taking his place next to Rich, the other inmates already start to trickle in, successfully eliminating the need for conversation. They go through the motions, same as every other day, apart from a complete lack of Rich's small talk. Some of the inmates eye him carefully, all of them noticing the bruise but no one comments. No one but Rufus.

Jared spots him further down the line, can practically see the asshole gearing up for it, but Rich doesn't notice, and Jared can't do anything to prevent it. Rufus steps in front of them, distorted grin making him look even uglier than normal. 

"Lover's spat, Speight?"

Rich looks up, hand tightening around his serving spoon. "Bite me."

Rufus snickers, elbowing his friend next to him. "Guess that fine piece 'o ass is back on the market then, hm? I got to get me some of that."

Rich is too quick for Jared to react. Within a second, Rich has dropped his spoon, hand flying out over the counter to grab Rufus's shirt and pull him forward, snarling in his face.

Out of nowhere, Misha appears next to him, hand on Rich's shoulder pulling him back. "Never gonna happen, Martin," Misha smiles, eyes cold, but Jared sees the corners of his mouth twitch.

Rich's fingers flex in Rufus's shirt, letting go reluctantly as a guard rushes over.

"Move it along Rufus, Speight, get to work, people are waiting."

Rufus leers at Misha, teeth bared, before he moves along the line.

Jared lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, relief mixing with anger. How he'd like to rearrange Rufus's ugly mug. Rich is shaking with fury next to him, breathing heavily.

"Fuck this shit," he mumbles, turning around briskly and walking off.

Misha watches him go, then looks across the kitchen, nodding his head at the counter.

A moment later Tom takes Rich's place at the counter, and when Jared looks back, Misha's disappearing in the same direction Rich left in. This kitchen appears to be a well-oiled machine in more ways than one. Tom doesn't make any comment, serving the remainder of the prisoners in silence. Jensen is among the last of them, and Jared is surprised to see him oddly... nervous, for lack of a better word. Nervous for Jensen standards at least, eyes flicking around, cataloging his surroundings, fingers clenched around his tray as if he's planning on snapping it in two.

Jared watches him curiously as he dumps a spoonful of fried eggs on his plate. He's waiting for Jensen to move along, but to his surprise, Jensen leans over the counter slightly. 

"Change of plans. Be ready at eleven. I'll come find you."

Jared opens his mouth to reply, ask what 'be ready' means, where he's meant to be ready, and what kind of change of plans, but Jensen is gone before any word comes out. Fucking brilliant. So far, this day is doing a good job at living up to his expectations.

Once everybody has been served, Jared quickly puts some eggs on a plate for himself. He takes it through to the counters in the back in hopes of sorting out his head. In a few hours he's going to see Alex. For the first time since his trial. For the last time.

The thought tightens his throat. It makes the lump of eggs in front of him look even more unappealing than usual. Resigned, he pushes the plate back. No breakfast for him, most important meal of the day or not. 

Of course, time flies the one time he doesn't want it to. Fucking clock always moving too slowly, stretching the days too long, but today it ticks to eleven before he's ready. Ready not in the work sense, that's all taken care of. Rich and Misha know where he's going even though he hasn't talked to them since breakfast. In every other sense, he doesn't think he'll ever be ready for this.

Misha comes to stand next to him behind the counter where he's waiting for Jensen.

"How you holding up?"

Jared shrugs, shakes his head.

"Yeah," Misha says, shooting him a sympathetic glance. "You'll be alright, trust me, you'll know what to say."

"How do you know?" It comes out desperate, almost as if he's begging Misha to give him reasons, so he can cling to them and go through with this rather than calling the whole thing off.

"You went through a lot of trouble to get here. No, don't," Misha says when Jared opens his mouth to interrupt him. "Making that deal with Ackles is a risk, trading jobs is a risk, and I know it has to have taken you quite some negotiating to get Ackles to cooperate in the first place."

Jared shrugs again, not sure what he's meant to say to that.

"That much trouble, you got something you need to say. Or maybe something you need to hear." Misha bumps his shoulder against Jared's. "Here he comes."

Jared's head snaps up, eyes finding Jensen's in the entrance to the dining hall, his eyebrow raised in expectation.

Misha pushes Jared ahead gently, hand on his shoulder squeezing. "We'll be here when you come back."

Jared looks over his shoulder at Misha, more than pleased to hear there's still a 'we'.

Misha just rolls his eyes in response but there's no mistaking the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Takes more than that to break us man, a fuckload more'n that."

Jared smiles in response, wants to say more, but Jensen's getting impatient.

"Today would be good, Padalecki," he says loudly, folding his arms over his chest. 

"Go," Misha says, and Jared nods, rushing towards Jensen. The on-duty guard is sitting at one of the tables, reading a book. Jared is half-expecting to be stopped, but the guard barely even looks up from what he's doing.

"Would it kill you to walk a little quicker?" Jensen grabs Jared by his shirt as soon as he's close enough and drags him out of the canteen.

Jared nearly stumbles when Jensen lets go of him.

"Cart," Jensen says, voice short, on edge. "What're you waiting for? Take it!"

"Jesus," Jared huffs, grabbing hold of the cart and rushing to catch up. "What the hell is going on?"

"None of your business." Jensen keeps walking without looking back. "Do _not_ linger. I don't care if you get overwhelmed by emotion and have an emo sob fest. Do _not_ linger."

"What happened?"

"It doesn't concern you, alright? Just do what I tell you and go back to the kitchen."

They round the corner where a guard is waiting for them. Jared has seen him before, but he doesn't know his name. The man nods at Jensen, who nods back.

"Alright then, let's move." The guard turns around, unlocking the door.

Jared glances at Jensen quickly before pushing the cart out the door. The guard steps around him, leading the way. Jared's mind is reeling. First Misha and Rich - Rufus - then Jensen acting fucking weird. Unlike himself, fucking creepy. He may have only known Jensen for a short time, but this is completely out of character, and it can't be because of Jared taking over his shift.

Jensen hadn't given any indication that it was a problem, seemed to almost enjoy setting the whole thing up. Something else is going on. Something is off, and it's distracting enough that he almost forgets where he's going.

Until they stop in front of the heavy doors leading to death row and the hole.

_The hole._

His skin suddenly feels too tight, world telescoping until all he can see is the door. The screams are back in his head, the girl crying, lifeless eyes, shock frozen in them staring at him. Why. Why?

"Come on, Padalecki, don't have all day."

He takes a deep breath, squeezes his eyes shut briefly. When he opens them he pushes the cart inside. The walls close in on him immediately, door falling shut behind him resounding in his head.

"The hole first," the guard says, moving to the door on the left. He unlocks it quickly and pulls it open. "Off you go. First three either side are occupied." 

Jared nods, enters the wing quickly. Need to be quick, don't linger, not much time. The trays of food aren't labeled in any way, so Jared assumes it doesn't matter who gets what.

He stops in front of the first cell, bending over to open the hatch. "Hello? I eh, I got your lunch?"

He can't see inside the cell very well, which is a small blessing. He pushes the tray inside, lets it hover for a moment before it's pulled all the way in. "Uh... enjoy." He shuts the hatch again. The next cells are much the same, but the first one on the other side is loud.

"Who the fuck are you? Where the fuck is Ackles?"

"He'll be back tonight." Jared waits for the man on the other side to take the tray.

"You here to kill me? You poisoned my food?" The voice gets louder, bordering on hysterical.

Jared can't really fault the guy his paranoia He knows what the hole can do to your mind, but he doesn't have time to babysit someone else's delusions. "Take the tray."

"Fuck no! You think I'm a fucking idiot? Think I can't-"

Jared drops the tray and slams the hatch shut, ignoring the muffled swearing. The last two he manages quicker, and soon he's back in the hall with the guard.

"You know the deal," the guard grunts, punching in a code to enter death row. "Five minutes. Don't make me come get you."

"How many-"

"Three, including your pal." The guard pulls the heavy metal door open to reveal a dim corridor with more heavy metal doors on either side. He steps forward slowly, heels dragging, heart beating too fast in his throat.

"Your pal's the last one," the guard says, pointing to the cells on the left before he shuts the door. 

Of course he is. Jared dishes out the first two lunches as quickly as he can, doing his best to shake off the heavy air around him that reeks of despair. This is where people come to die, and they spend weeks, months, years sometimes knowing it, fearing it... waiting for it. These heavy brick walls absorbed their last thoughts, last tears, the regrets and hopes that never went anywhere. The cold concrete floor soaked up every nightmare, every fear. No light penetrates the hall, a cave locked away from the rest of the world. A dark corner, hidden from sight, easy to ignore. Nothing but waiting for the inevitable. 

That alone should really be punishment enough. And the sheer cruelty of having them pick their last meal, it's cocky, arrogant in a way that's beyond him. We're gonna kill you, and we're not gonna suffer any consequences. We're gonna kill you, do exactly what you did to land your ass here, only we'll get away with it. We'll walk away with certainty, knowing we did the right thing, certain enough of how right we are that we can have you pick your last meal and get away with that, too.

They're going to kill Alex, murder him and tell themselves they did a good thing. Premeditated, when Jared knows without a doubt Alex never thought about killing the girl. After doing the first two doors on automatic, he stops in front of the third door and kneels down in front of the hatch. His hands won't stop shaking, making it nearly impossible to pull it open. When he finally manages, a shiver runs up his spine, his breath catches when he leans in, peering through the small opening in the thick metal.

"Alex?" He whispers, clearing his throat before trying again, a little louder this time. "Alex?"

Shuffling from inside, and he catches a flash of blue eyes before a pale hand reaches out through the hatch.

"Alex, it's me. Jared."

A gasp, the hand is pulled back, more shuffling and then Jared can see his face. What he sees is something he couldn't have prepared himself for. Alex seems to have lost what little weight he once had, bones poking through ashen skin, his nose too sharp, eyes dull and deep in their sockets. Greasy black hair falls into his eyes, a sad reminder of the man Jared used to know, who drew more than a few appreciative eyes.

"Jared?" His voice breaks on the word, seeming to come from deep inside his chest.

"Yeah," Jared scoots down so Alex can see him better, Alex's eyes nearly popping out of his skull. 

"What're you... how did you..."

"Been here for a few weeks," Jared says, "heard you were coming and I just, I wanted to see you."

"Why?"

Jared takes another deep breath. "I'm sorry."

"Oh." Alex glances to the side, looking unsure.

"I wish I could..." Jared hesitates. "Wish I could help you, but... I can't, and..."

"You didn't kill the girl." Alex says, voice strained. "Didn't pull the trigger. Fuck, your gun wasn't even loaded. It's not..." He gestures with his hand.

"Still, I-"

"No," Alex says, shaking his head. "I appreciate it, but please don't do this to me." He runs a hand over his face. "I've... accepted..." he snorts. "Accepted that I did this, I landed me here. Don't try to take away my responsibility and make me feel like I shouldn't be here. That it's all some big injustice." There's a jagged edge of almost-hysteria in his voice; a sliver between composure and shattering apart, held in Jared's hands.

Jared swallows, fingers curling over Alex's bony ones on the edge of the hatch. "Alright." But it's not alright, never going to be alright no matter what Alex says. "Is there anything you need? Anything I can do for you?"

Alex blinks a few times, seeming to think about it. When he finally speaks, it sounds tired. "Jared... if you make it out of here, and I hope you do. You have to try, ok?"

Jared swallows thickly, nods.

"When you do. Can you tell her parents I'm sorry? I know that won't change anything for them, but if I could... If me dying would bring her back, I would have shot myself on the spot."

Jared exhales a shaky breath, pushes down the prickling of his eyes. "I will."

"I thought of writing them, but it's too soon. I don't think they want to hear it. But they might in a few years."

"I promise."

Alex nods, giving Jared a small smile that looks as if it's made of glass and will shatter at the merest touch. "So how's prison treating you?"

Jared pushes back the words on his tongue to go with the distraction, give Alex a bit of normalcy, because it's all he can give. "Not exactly my dream vacation, but I'm coping. Working in the kitchen."

Alex huffs out a laugh that almost sounds wistful to Jared's ears. Shit, and Jared thought he had it bad. There's no doubt in his mind that Alex would give anything to be in Jared's shoes right now.

"It's good to see the face of the person responsible for the shit that passes for food around here."

Jared doesn't point out that it's not actually him that makes these particular meals. "Fuck you man! Don't diss my cooking skills like that."

"Skills, huh? Think you'd have been better off sticking to dealing."

"Yeah, cause I did so well there," Jared mumbles.

"You got my lunch?"

Jared nods, picks the tray of the cart and hands it to Alex.

"Egg salad," Alex says, taking the tray from him. "My favorite. Thanks."

Jared's stomach clenches. He wishes he'd thought to ask Jensen for some nice food to give to Alex, a cheeseburger or something. There's a rap on the door of the wing. "Fuck." Jared leans closer to the hatch, forehead pressed against the cold metal. "I gotta go, man."

Alex's smile thins, lips quivering, eyes wet, but he nods slowly. "Thanks for coming."

Jared only just manages to repress a wince. He doesn't know what to say, none of the standards like 'take care' or 'see you later' are appropriate, but there's nothing else he can say.

Alex picks up on it, hand reaching out to pat Jared's shoulder. "Chin up man, it'll be alright."

The attempt to sound brave doesn't fool anyone.

"Hang in there?" Jared offers, because he has to say something.

"Will do. You too. Don't take shit from no one."

"I won't." Jared stands up slowly. "Bye Alex."

"Bye."

*

Jared can't stop shaking, hands rattling against the cart as he pushes it ahead, every step taking him further away from Alex. He got what he wanted, but it doesn't dull the feeling that someone is trying to squeeze his heart. He gets to leave, walk out of this last stop before death, and Alex has to stay.

"Fuckin' hell, Padalecki, what the fuck did I tell you?"

The guard looks a bit frazzled, cheeks red. He locks the door behind Jared. "Leave the cart, we're going back to C-Wing."

Jared lets go of his anchor reluctantly as the guard unlocks the next door. "Why?"

"Less questions, more movement, let's go!"

Jared rushes after the guard, who's barely checking if Jared's following him. The yards around them look deserted, too damn quiet for lunch time. The guard's walkie crackles loudly before a tinny voice comes through.

_Guy's dead. Burnt to a crisp. We're not even sure who he is. *crack* All wings are in lockdown. Police are on their way._

"Copy that."

Jared's eyes widen, and he nearly stumbles over his feet. "What-"

"Enough with the questions, Padalecki," the guard snaps. "You are not supposed to be here. Do you have any idea how much shit I could get into?"

Oh. _Oh._ He'd completely forgotten about that. No wonder the guard is... Jared's breath catches. Jensen.

Jensen, nervous, jittery, not at ease. He wouldn't. 

_When he's around, accidents happen._

They're back in C-Wing too soon for Jared's liking, and instead of being dropped off at the kitchen, he's escorted to his cell. The block is buzzing, all prisoners already in their cells, talking loudly. He only catches the odd sentence here and there, but it's enough to give him an idea.

"Man, did you see him? That's what I call deep-fried."

"Fucker couldn't pick another time to get his ass roasted? Where's my fucking lunch?"

Jared catches Misha's eyes when the guard stops in front of his cell, unsurprised to find Misha frowning at him. Jared offers a small smile, before he turns around to join Jensen in his cell. He watches the bars slide shut, hair at the back of his neck standing up, and he hasn't wanted to be out of his cell more than he does right now.

"Took you long enough."

Jensen is stretched out on his bunk as usual, but without a book. Instead he's silently watching what he can see of the cell block.

"What's going on?" He asks, leaning against the wall.

Jensen shrugs. "They found some guy in the kitchen, looks like he slipped with a pan of oil and fell on a burning stove."

Jared's eyes widen, head snapping round to make sure both Misha and Rich are there.

"All the kitchen staff are accounted for," Jensen says, sounding bored of the whole thing already. "Now that you're back at least."

"People don't just slip," Jared says sharply, studying Jensen's face but it's a perfect mask of indifference. 

"Floors get slippery. Shit happens."

Jared snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. "If the kitchen staff is accounted for, what was he doing there?"

"Excellent question, Sherlock. I guess some people just have an inherent need to lend a hand where they can." Jensen is silent for a minute, before he tilts his head up at Jared. "So, how'd the death row visit go?"

"Fine. What's going to happen now?"

Jensen raises an eyebrow at him. "With what?"

"The dead guy in the kitchen?"

"Why do you care?"

"How long are they keeping us locked down for?"

"Last I heard you had fifteen years on your ticket. Stay out of trouble, and I'd say... maybe eight years if you're lucky?"

"In this cell," Jared grinds out, fingertips scraping against the rough brick by his sides.

"Depends," Jensen muses, scanning the cell block. "Kitchen's sealed, they need to figure out who the poor sucker is, then assess the scene, question the kitchen staff... if they deem it an accident, we'll be out of here by dinner time."

"And if they don't?"

Jensen smirks, focusing back on Jared. "If they don't we're all in for a few unpleasant days."

A few days in this cell with Jensen will drive him out of his mind. This is not how he'd expected the rest of the day to go. He'd hoped to just go back to the kitchen, put himself back together, get a chance to talk to Misha before dealing with Jensen.

He can't right now. Everything's too raw, like his skin's split open, and all of his thoughts and feelings are on the outside, easy for everyone to see. To take advantage of. Misha is sitting in front of the bars in his cell, hood pulled up over his head, but Jared can see his face anyway. He wonders if Misha and Rich were there when it happened. If they saw or heard anything. 

Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he's imagining things. Jensen seems perfectly relaxed now. It was probably an accident. 

He climbs into his bunk, stretches out propped up against some pillows, so he can see what's going on outside of his cell. There are only a few guards on the block, standing in a small group talking in hushed whispers Jared can't make out. After about an hour, Misha is taken from his cell, and Jared sits up.

"Are they... I'm kitchen staff, they're gonna wanna talk to me. They'll find out I wasn't-"

"As far as the guards are concerned you left the kitchen 'cause you were sick. Food poisoning. Not exactly a stretch."

The precise execution of Jensen's plan leaves Jared feeling a little nauseous.

"It was an accident, Jay. Stop breaking your pretty little head over it."

"How do you know?" Jared asks, a confrontational tone to his voice that he may very well come to regret. Jensen knows something, but he's not worried. Jared knows nothing, and he's freaking out.

Jensen doesn't reply and Jared doesn't push it.

Misha is brought back, Rich taken in his place. He's gone for another thirty odd minutes. And nothing happens. It's not until nearly six that a voice crackles over the intercom, silencing the entire cell block. 

"Good afternoon, gentlemen, this is your warden speaking."

It's met with a mix of cat calls and shushing.

"As you may be aware, an accident took place in a kitchen in C-Wing around noon today, whereby an inmate was fatally burned."

"Yeah, yeah, tell us something new," someone yells.

"After investigating the incident we have concluded it was an unfortunate accident, and no further investigation will be required."

Jared freezes at the unmistakable snort coming from the bunk below him.

"The prisoner who died is Max Walker."

Jared's heart jumps in his throat, cell spinning around him as his stomach clenches. Max Walker? Max Walker who confronted Jensen in the gym just a few days ago? He exhales shakily, fingers twitching on the covers.

"Y'alright there, Jared?" Jensen drawls, but there's an edge to his voice that makes Jared's heart beat faster.

"Uh-huh," he manages, but he can't quite get his breathing under control enough to sound normal.

"Dinner will be served in half an hour in the canteens. Tomorrow everything will be running as normal again. Thank you for your time."

As soon as the last word is said, the cell block explodes in conversation. Sounds as if every con in this place is talking at once, the mix of voices making Jared dizzy. He nearly screams when Jensen's head appears next to him all of a sudden, chin on folded arms on Jared's mattress as he eyes him curiously. His hair is mussed, as if he just woke up, making him look soft except for the slight sharpness in his eyes. He smells of bleach. 

"What's up?"

That's got to be the single most normal thing Jensen has ever said to him. It courses through his body like adrenaline, triggering his fight-flight response, but there's nowhere to go and there's no doubt in his mind that he'd lose a fight.

"Just... shocked is all," Jared mumbles, and hey, it's the truth even if it's incomplete.

Jensen narrows his eyes slightly, and Jared holds his breath, holding Jensen's gaze as best he can.

"Easily scared, huh?"

Jared shrugs, eyes cutting down to his hands in his lap. "Bit shaky after seeing Alex, I guess."

Jensen watches him a moment longer before he relaxes as if he's decided that yes, that is indeed how people work so yes, that is a valid reason. He pats Jared's knee and Jared has to fight down the urge to pull away, put as much distance as possible between himself and Jensen. From anyone else it would seem like a nice gesture. From Jensen, it has Jared wanting to never close his eyes around him again.

Jensen moves back to his own bunk, and he stays there until the cells open to let everyone out for dinner. Jensen is out of the cell before Jared manages to get up, and when he steps out to join the stream of inmates, Jensen's already out of sight.

He falls in step with Misha and Rich, neither of whom says a word. They get microwave meals from the service counter, some hideous looking concoction that supposedly has spinach in it. Jared joins the two of them at a table in the corner.

"Are you alright?" Misha asks as soon as they sit down.

Jared nods, but it lacks conviction. "What happened?"

"An accident," Rich mutters darkly, keeping his eyes on the rest of the canteen.

"We heard him scream," Misha says quietly, pushing his food around in its plastic container. 

"We were out for a smoke. Ran back in and he was..." Misha's voice trails off as he lowers his spoon. Rich's hand slips under the table subtly, but he's still not looking at either one of them. Looks like at least something good came of today.

"Ackles?" Jared asks, his voice low even if no one who's not meant to hear could catch his words over the loud rumble of voices.

"Was on duty," Misha says, wincing at Jared slightly.

"But... no. The guard who took me to death row, he knows."

"He's not gonna say anything," Rich says, glancing at him quickly. "Risk losing his own job? Fuck no, not over a dead con who can't talk."

"I guess I could-"

Misha shakes his head, jaw tight. "Don't do anything stupid, Even if Ackles had no alibi, there is no evidence, nothing to suggest he had anything to do with it. You don't wanna put yourself in that position."

"I can't just keep quiet about it."

"Yes, you can," Rich says, "if you know what's good for you and everyone else, you fucking can."

Jared puts his spoon down, what little appetite he had in the first place has vanished. "Why're you so afraid of him?" He knows it's a mistake as soon as he says it.

Rich glares daggers at him. "Why are you not? What more do you need to hear before you'll get it through that thick skull of yours that he's not someone you wanna fuck with?"

"Rich," Misha mutters.

"No, no. He needs to shut up and start playing by the rules. You wanna be an idiot and get your ass killed, by all means. Leave us out of it."

With that, he stomps off, leaving his tray behind. Misha watches him go before turning back to Jared.

"Yeah, so, um, he's a bit uptight right now."

"Hadn't noticed," Jared mumbles.

"Just leave him. Been a long day. He'll be alright again tomorrow."

Jared relaxes a little, gives Misha a small smile. "You gonna take care of that, huh?"

Misha doesn't miss a beat, winking at him. "I'll take care of it singlehandedly."

"Dude, TMI," Jared laughs, shaking his head.

"Uh-huh, you love it," Misha says, but his tone is teasing, spoon tapping against his lips.

Jared rolls his eyes, leans into the sense of normalcy for a moment.

"How did it go?" Misha's tone is serious again.

Jared shrugs, looks down. "It... I don't know. I said what I wanted to say."

"That's good."

"I think some part of me did think I could... I dunno, fix it? Somehow. A little."

"Yeah."

"I can't though, and he said it's fine, but..."

"It isn't," Misha finishes for him. "I think you made a difference, to him. See a familiar face in here, tie up some loose ends."

"I guess," Jared mutters, tiredness suddenly sweeping over him. It's been a long day. Feels like at least three have passed, and he can hardly wait for his bed.

"Back to normal tomorrow," Misha says gently.

"Never thought I'd say it, but I'm actually looking forward to it. Never thought I'd ever call it normal."

"Stay out of trouble, okay?" Misha says, taking Jared's tray as well as his own. "It's not worth it."

Jared nods slowly and follows Misha and the rest of them out of the canteen. He makes it back to their cell before Jensen, exhaustion descending on him, making it almost too much of an effort to brush his teeth.

He doesn't hear Jensen enter, feels his presence behind him like he would a predator's, but with it comes only resignation. He's sharing his cell - his home - with a certifiable crazy person, who possibly killed someone today by setting them on fire. And Jared was part of the cover up, an unaware, ignorant cog in Jensen's master plan. How much time has he spent setting this up? Just over a week since that little run in with the poor guy, but for all he knows Jensen had already planned to dispose of Walker before he ever set foot in this place. 

He rinses quickly, eager to get to bed and be relieved of his own mind for a few hours. When he turns around, Jensen is right behind him, face still like a porcelain mask, eyes burning Jared's. It's like a scene out of a film when the bars start sliding shut behind him, and the corners of Jensen's lips pull up slightly. The only thing missing is ominous music signaling Jared's pending death, but he doesn't need sound effects to know he's in trouble.

"Had a nice little chat with your friends, hm?" Jensen's voice is barely louder than a whisper, but there's an implicit threat that has Jared's throat tighten uncomfortably.

"Huh?" It's non-committal, in lieu of anything more meaningful that may escalate things.

"Don't play detective, Jared. I'd hate to see you get hurt." Jensen's face remains perfectly expressionless, as if his mouth has a mind of its own that is in no way connected to any other part of him. The tip of his tongue sweeps over his bottom lip quickly, and Jared can feel Jensen's breath on his face.

Jared's heart is beating too quickly as the moment stretches. He's holding his breath, waiting for something, half-expecting Jensen to pull a shank made out of a melted toothbrush out of his pocket, but maybe that shit only happens on TV. He really hopes it has no basis in reality. It's weird to think he's got something to lose, that even now, in here, he still values his life too much to want to part with it. It's weird that the threat of dying makes him feel alive.

In the end, Jensen relaxes, in a way that's barely noticeable, and he rolls his eyes. "D'you mind? I gotta piss, and unless you wanna hold my dick it's a solo event."

Jared stumbles past Jensen, glad to get away even if part of his brain is still flashing DANGER in bright red. He stands by the bars. His eyes on Jensen as if he's waiting for him to turn around and attack. It's when Jensen slips his sweats down his hips and Jared suddenly has a half-view of Jensen's ass that his cheeks flush, fear-fueled adrenaline crossing wires somewhere on the way as heat pools low in his stomach. He averts his eyes quickly, stares at the corner of Jensen's pillow instead and tries to stop his train of thought from relaying the tracks that make up his mind.

He hears Jensen chuckle a moment later, breathy, deep sound that has the hair at the back of his neck stand up. When he dares to look over, Jensen licks his lips, head cocked slightly to the side as if he's waiting for something. But he's blocking the way to Jared's bunk, and showing no signs of moving. Jensen's eyebrow lifts, slightly, almost like an invitation, and Jared wonders if this is the last thing people see before they die in here. Misreading a threat for a hint to come closer, moth to flame, and then Jensen sets them on fire.

A guard yells for lights out, leaving them in darkness only seconds later. The transition from light to dark leaves him blind for a few moments. He doesn't hear Jensen move, has no idea until he feels warm breath on his face. He jerks back, hits the bars but there's nowhere to go. His eyes adjust and Jensen is right in front of him, bare toes almost touching Jared's, his face unreadable. Jared has no idea what the fuck is going on, but he's kind of getting used to that feeling. Jensen looks somewhere over Jared's shoulder, tongue running over his lips again, drawing Jared's eyes automatically.

Jensen's eyes are back on his own a second later, and he looks almost friendly if you ignore the steeliness in the green. Empty, glassy almost, as if something is missing from them. Something essential, without which, the whole thing feels uncannily... _off_. The only times Jared has ever seen Jensen's eyes light up was when he was negotiating the terms of their little 'deal'. Jensen leans in, bars pressing into Jared's back, the heat coming off of Jensen blazing his skin. Jensen's lips next to his ear, warm breath tickling.

"What are you looking at?" Jensen whispers, taking an impossible step closer until his hips press into Jared's. Only just, the contact light but heavy with suggestion that Jared is afraid to interpret. Long line of muscle fused against him. He swears he can feel Jensen's heart beat against his own.

"Nothing." His voice is hoarse, throat dry, and Jensen is turning everything upside down, making Jared dizzy.

"Not convinced," Jensen mumbles, one hand coming up to curl around an iron bar next to Jared's head. "You look like you'd quite happily pay me back for that lil favor I did for you today."

No. His imagination helpfully supplies some images. Him on his knees, in front of Jensen. Those damn eyes looking down at him, one of Jensen's hands in his hair. No. He doesn't want to. Unless Jensen has made up his mind and picked his prize so that they can get this over and done with. It's not something he wants, it's just Jensen being like this, making him think of sex when he hasn't had any desire to even engage in a little fantasy for weeks. It makes his body think that it doesn't matter if Jensen is a guy, doesn't matter that guys don't really do it for him. Especially when Jensen is this close.

"I don't," he forces out, doing his best to sound sure, confident, like he used to be.

Jensen pulls back enough that he can look at Jared, his lips parted, head leaning back so he somehow manages to look down at Jared. "You would."

"Shut up." Jensen's won again, and he knows it. When he steps to the side, Jared brushes past him quickly, He pulls himself up to his bunk, tries to get rid of the feel of Jensen on his skin even as he's hyperaware that Jensen is still standing by the bars, looking out, fingers curled around iron. Jared winces, really hopes Misha and Rich didn't see what just happened. There is no need to add to how irresponsible and naive they already think he is.

Eventually, after what seems like an hour, Jensen returns to his bunk without looking at Jared. Jared breathes out, listens to Jensen shifting to get comfortable. Everything of today catches up with him in the end, and he tumbles headfirst into a restless sleep riddled with images of Jensen. In his dreams Jensen is naked, kissing him, warm body pressed against his own. Strong hands sliding down his spine, his own palming the sweaty skin of Jensen's stomach. Jensen moaning his name softly, full lips closing around - 

Jared awakes with a start, breath catching in his throat, causing a strangled sound to pass his lips. His heart is racing, skin slicked, and he's harder than he's been in a long time. He grits his teeth as his breathing adjusts, ignoring his dick as it begs for attention. No way in fuck is he going to jerk off to thoughts of Jensen. Especially not with Jensen asleep under him. But fuck, does he have nice thoughts about feeling Jensen do a bit more than sleep under him.

Just what he needed to add to an already fucked up situation. A little bit of sexual frustration as icing on the cake, pun not intended. It's not anything he'd thought about when he got arrested. The thought of sex just became labeled with Must Avoid.

Works for Misha and Rich, though.

Works quite well for them Jared would say. It's not helping him get rid of his hard on, making it worse if anything. He turns over on his stomach, quickly changing his mind and lying on his side instead. This is a distraction he can't afford. Jensen probably knows that, hell, played on it. Puppet on strings. He's not going to give into Jensen.

He's also not going to fall asleep. 

He's got no perception of time in his cell, not at the right angle to see the clock at the guards' station so he doesn't know if it would even be worth trying to go back to sleep.

Instead, he sits up slowly, eyes fully adjusted to the dark now. He can see a decent chunk of the cell block from here. Everything seems quiet, or, as quiet as a prison is ever going to be. There's shifting, snoring, heavy breathing, the soft murmur of the guards on night shift and hissing and tapping of pipes in the wall. It's eerily peaceful, as if the entire block is lulled into a fake sense of comfort. That's when bad things tend to happen. Misha and Rich's cell is silent too.

Jared strains to make out shapes in the bunks, but he only finds a dark shadow in the bottom bunk. Of course they sleep in the same bed. Just because Jared has seen them get out of their own bunks in the morning doesn't mean they spent the entire night there. Must be a fucking tight squeeze.

He's intrigued now, and it's not as if he's got anything better to do than watch them, wait for Rich to climb back into the top bunk. So what if he's a creepy voyeur? He's in prison, it's safe to say morals are left at the front gate.

He leans against the brick wall, watching. It seems to take ages, it may very well just be minutes. There's rustling of sheets coming from the cell, hushed voices. A sigh that only just reaches his ears. Jared sucks his lower lip into his mouth and closes his eyes. He can't watch them if they're actually going to...

He lies back down, too warm under the sheets when he pulls them up over his head. Bad, bad night. Bad enough that he's relieved when the guard comes to fetch him. He's in and out of the shower before Misha and Rich get there.

How his feet take him to the kitchen when he feels like he's dragging a horse behind him, he doesn't know. Should've fucking slept when he had the chance. He's stirring a giant pot of porridge that's more like cement - the spoon remains upright in it - when Rich walks up to him, hair dripping as if he got out of the shower in a hurry. 

"Nemo," he nods, leaning against the counter next to Jared. He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Rich?" this is the part where Rich tells him to stop spying on them or he's going to rearrange Jared's face. Jared likes his face as it is now, it may not meet Leonardo DaVinci's standards but he'd still like to keep it.

"The fuck are you doing, man?"

"S-stirring porridge?"

Rich clucks his tongue. "Do I need to remind you of where people who want in Ackles's pants end up?"

Jared does a double take at that, not at all what he was expecting. "I don't... I never... what the fuck, man?"

"Mutual visibility, Nemo." Rich rolls his eyes. "I bet you were one of those kids who thought if they covered their eyes, other people wouldn't be able to see them, huh?"

"No, I wasn't," Jared mumbles, glaring at the porridge. "Fuck off."

"I can do that. Tell Mish what song you want played at your funeral, though. Would hate to get it wrong and play you some Mariah Carey, when you really wanted Celine Dion."

Jared turns around, snappy response forming in his mind, but Rich isn't lingering for an answer. He hates it when people do that, walk out in the middle of an argument, so he's left with nothing but frustration, and no one to take it out on.

"Celine Dion, fucking idiot," he mutters under his breath, waving a hand when Tom calls out a 'morning' to him from the other side of the kitchen. He stays in the back, hands the porridge over to someone whose name he can't remember. There are limits to how much human interaction he wishes to endure, and today he just happens to have reached his limit less than an hour after leaving his cell. But it's prison, and being alone or having some privacy is nothing more than a temporary, paper-thin illusion that will shred before he has a chance to settle into it. Luckily for him, it's Misha who chooses to disturb his peace and quiet. 

"Morning," Misha nods, handing Jared a plate of eggs and toast before he hops onto the counter with his own breakfast. 

Jared grunts something in reply, digging into his breakfast. Hadn't realized just how hungry he was until he started eating. He could do with some coffee to wake him up. Real, delicious coffee. A nice Americano with a splash of milk would go a long way towards making him feel human again.

Misha clears his throat as if he's going to say something, making Jared roll his eyes before he looks up.

"You gonna give me a lecture on not fucking psychopaths too? Think your boyfriend covered all the bases." If he was expecting Misha to be offended or annoyed he's disappointed. Instead, Misha smiles and looks down at his porridge fondly. As if it's not an ingredient for building houses but a five course meal worthy of the Ritz.

"You want condoms?" He asks, voice quivering as if he's trying to hold back laughter.

"You're not funny."

"I'm not joking."

"Coulda fooled me."

Misha's silent for a moment before he continues. "I'm just saying-"

"I don't want to fuck Jensen, alright?" Jared puts his fork down with a clang, registering, but choosing to ignore the way Misha tenses at the sound. "I don't want anything to do with him. Ever."

"Not what it looked like from what I saw last night." Misha says softly as he puts his bowl down next to him on the counter.

"I don't know what you think you saw, but there's nothing going on, alright?"

Misha sighs, gives him a look that borders on pity. "What makes you think it's your place to say that? He's got the reins. He's playing you like a fiddle, and you didn't even see it happen."

"I'm fine."

"You attracted to him?"

Jared glares daggers at Misha.

"What? He's not a bad-looking guy." Misha shrugs, picking at the fraying seam on his sweats absentmindedly.

"Thought you were only gay for Rich."

Misha looks up sharply, jaw tight, but his eyes aren't angry. "You don't have to be gay to consider a man attractive. I didn't say I was attracted _to_ him."

"Oh." Maybe noticing how nicely Jensen's muscles move under his skin doesn't make him gay then. Maybe it just makes him an observer, objective, detached.

"So tell me about you and Rich," Jared says, eager to change the subject. "How'd you guys end up together?"

"Fuck me, Jared. We're not in high school, fuck off."

Jared catches the smile in his words, though, so he presses on. "Tell me, love at first sight? Your eyes met across the canteen, and the whole world slowed down?"

Misha gives him a disbelieving look, shakes his head. "You watch too many chick flicks, man."

"Come on! You can tell me."

Misha studies him carefully for a few moments before he answers. When he does, the words are slow, dragged out, as if they don't want to be spoken.

"We first met when I tried to kill him."

Jared's eyes widen, for a moment he thinks he heard wrong, but given how tightly Misha's eyebrows are pinched together it seems unlikely.

"You tried to-"

Misha nods, runs a hand through his hair making it stick up and avoids Jared's eyes.

He didn't see that one coming. While part of him wants to know what the fuck, and why, part of him really does not want to know.

"I eh..." Misha chews on his lip. He probably regrets having let that slip now, which is why Jared doesn't say anything. He doesn't need the whole story, and certainly no more than Misha is willing to share. Misha's been nothing but nice to him, and he wants to return the favor. If that means keeping his mouth shut and letting Misha talk, he can do that.

"I was a bit of a mess when I met him," Misha shrugs, long, pale fingers tugging at his hair..

Jared nods, pushes his bacon around on his plate. When he met Rich, after he got raped. He swallows thickly, appetite gone. "What changed?"

Misha stares across the kitchen, faraway look in his eyes. "I did. I had to. And he can be really fucking annoying when he feels trapped. God, he's such a..." Misha shakes his head. "Never gave me a reason to wanna hurt him, though."

"But he gave you a reason to... want... him?"

"Jared." Warning in Misha's voice. Don't cross the line, but Jared wants to know. Needs to know, so maybe he can understand what is going on with him and Jensen.

He's not an idiot, knows whatever he thinks about Jensen has gone well past curiosity. He still wants to find out what Jensen is in for, what happened, how he got here, but maybe... maybe he wants more.

"Why's he fascinate you?"

Jared looks over to find Misha looking right at him. Not judging or mocking him like Rich did earlier. "I don't know," he mumbles, frown creasing his face, because he genuinely doesn't know. "I practically live with the guy. It's not weird that I wanna know what he's up to, is it?"

"No. It's a little unusual to..." Misha winces, hand rubbing over his knee. "To get involved."

"I'm not-"

"If he offered, would you wanna fuck him? Would you let him fuck you if he asked?"

"He wouldn't offer."

Misha huffs out a breath, and Jared curses himself for responding with anything other than 'no'.

"Well, I guess that's my answer. And fyi, it's been known to happen."

"You're shitting me."

"Not at all. Think he gets off on controlling them."

That sounds about right. But now he's thinking about it, picturing it, and the images come quickly, out of nowhere but vivid enough that they may as well be memories.

"You're in trouble," Misha mumbles. "He's got you trapped. Now he's just circling around waiting for the right moment to strike."

"You know an awful lot about him." He's not jealous as such, more confused. Possibly annoyed at Misha's unwillingness to give him the details he wants.

"I really don't," Misha shrugs, pushes his porridge aside. "I know how to look out for myself."

Jared observes him quietly, watches Misha's eyes narrow almost as if he's daring Jared to disagree. "I'm not an idiot."

"Don't have to be an idiot. Just need to be human."

_Human._ The idea stays with Jared as he goes through the motions of making lunch. Distraction means he has no clue what he's tossing into this salad but it's not as if there's anything he can do to the food to make it taste better anyway. Or worse for that matter.

Maybe he's losing his humanity. Maybe a year from now, something like Max Walker's death won't even have him lifting an eyebrow. That's assuming he's still alive a year from now.

"You're throwing off my mojo, Nemo. Stop thinking so damned loud or you'll hurt yourself."

Jared mumbles under his breath but doesn't look up. It's dangerous to stop paying attention when you have a knife that won't know the difference between a carrot and your finger.

Rich stops next to him, breathes heavy on Jared's right but Rich isn't looking at him. He's staring past Jared at a small group of inmates on the far side of the canteen.

"Look at them," Rich says, light voice clashing with the frown on his face.

"Look at them what?"

"That's what danger looks like."

The ominous tone to Rich's voice makes a giggle bubble up. "They're just standing there."

Rich rolls his eyes at him, before focusing on the small group of cons. "What do you see? Sharks. Blacks and Latinos, Nemo, tell me, since when are they friends?"

Jared blinks slowly, looking at the group huddled together more closely. "I dunno. Maybe they're just-"

"No. They're not. They're liaising. Safety in numbers, which means they need safety, which means they know something."

"I really think you're reading too much-"

"Why hello, Jared, fancy seeing you here."

Jared spins around quickly, half the salad flipping off his ladle to the floor. "Hi."

Ackles. Here, in the kitchen, smiling like a cat that found a herd of baby chicks running around.

A low growl next to him has Jared's head flipping back to find Rich's lips curled, ready to pounce. Jesus, territorial much?

"Can we help you?" Jared forces out, eager to have Jensen leave as quickly as he appeared.

Jensen hums, shakes his head slowly, his attention also captured by the cons. It's not unlike Rich's careful calculation. Eerie how alike they look in that moment.

They've both been around the block in this place, albeit in different ways. They know what makes the prison tick. They'll know what makes it stop, and they clearly see something here, something that looks like an innocent gathering to him. What the fuck does he know?

"Ackles," Rich says sharply. "Do you want something?"

Something twitches next to Jensen's left eye. Jared studies the arch of his forehead, lighter strands of hair falling over his eyebrows, lips curled ever so slightly.

"I always want something." He glances at Jared, eyes giving nothing away. "I always get it as well." He holds Jared's eyes a moment longer, while Jared does his best not to blurt out something stupid just to fill the awkward silence. Jensen sets a clipboard on the counter - a list of meals for death row and the hole. When Jensen walks away abruptly, Jared breathes out a sigh of relief.

"Fuck's sake, you're gonna get your fucking ass greased," Rich mumbles. "Hopefully in a literal sense."

"Go fuck yourself," Jared bites out, stomping down on thoughts that have no business being in his head.

"Don't think I need to."

*

Jared spends the rest of the day going through the motions, occasionally watching the canteen, trying to see the tension that's blatantly obvious to Rich and Jensen. He doesn't see it. He notices Misha is slightly quieter than usual. Tom keeps to himself, and Rich is so high-strung he's practically vibrating. It's not what worries him.

Jensen doesn't say a word to him, from the moment Jared gets back to their cell at the end of the day, until the next morning. That's what worries him. That, and the fact that he almost misses the sound of Jensen's voice. It's become an expected end to his day; get pushed into a corner by Jensen's little word games, get angry in response, go to bed wondering why the hell Jensen confuses him so much.

Now there's nothing but silence.

A trapped kind of silence, punctured by the neverending sounds of prison. It's like a factory that never closes; its employees never leave. Every day that passes, the option of parole seems more and more like an abstract idea that will never be a part of his reality.

For the first time since he arrived, life around him seems almost dull. How can prison ever involve getting stuck in a rut? He does his job. Is distantly aware of the silence surrounding him, and he's beginning to notice the small gatherings and hushed voices. Even the guards are on edge, demonstrating authority and control whenever they can. Misha says they're trying to keep a handle on things, because they know they're sitting on a time bomb. Rich says they're pathetic little men trying to prove themselves to themselves. Jensen says nothing; he just watches.

Jared chooses to follow his example, because it seems safe.

The week passes in a blur of work. Minimum amount of words exchanged with Jensen, to the point where Jared is beginning to wonder if Jensen has lost interest in him completely. Seems like an effective way to end up dead if Jensen no longer has use for him. That thought weighs on him enough that by Friday night he's desperate to break the silence and provoke Jensen into talking to him.

He waits for the bars to slide shut behind him, for the guard's footsteps to disappear. Jensen is where he always is; stretched out on his bunk with a book. Seemingly oblivious to Jared's presence, as has become the norm.

"Hey," Jared says, keeping his spot by the bars. No response. Not even a hint to show that Jensen heard him. "How you doing?" He shifts his weight from foot to foot, wonders how Jensen - how anyone - can allow a silence as awkward as this to stretch on.

"Kitchen's kinda busy," he babbles, like some simpleton who doesn't have control over his entire brain. "Chad is off sick, d'you know Chad? Funny guy, has this really weird-looking haircut-"

"Are you high?"

"Just wondered what was up," Jared shrugs, mostly triumphant, because he got Jensen to talk to him.

"Well, let's see," Jensen says. "Today I woke up, I followed everyone to the shower, kept to myself and washed behind my ears like a good little boy." Jensen swings his legs over the edge of the bed, bare feet lightly touching the floor.

Jared eyes him with worry, not at all happy with the sudden approach. Something dangerous flickers in Jensen's eyes, like a predator pushed in a corner, strung-tight and ready to snap at the merest provocation.

"I went to get my breakfast, and this really tall guy gave me some extra grits," Jensen drawls, the words making Jared's heart speed up, because he didn't think Jensen had noticed. "Then I sat in my corner and watched, and came to the heart wrenching conclusion that we're on the brink of a revolution, and it is going to get ugly."

Jensen gets to his feet, stretches out slowly, eyes traveling up Jared's body lazily before settling on his face. "I went to work. Found out some interesting bits of information and tried to think of what it is I want from my cellie in return for this favor I did him." The tip of Jensen's tongue pokes out to trace the outline of his lip as he considers Jared. Jared suddenly understands why women get uncomfortable when men watch them like this; he feels like every layer of clothing is being stripped off his skin just by Jensen looking at him like that. 

"Sounds like a good day," Jared forces out, keeping his head high even as Jensen steps closer, nearly invading his personal space now.

"Mmm, it was." Jensen stops just in front of him. "What about you?"

Jared shrugs, swallows. "Just work I guess."

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "You are completely oblivious to everything going on around you, aren't ya? It'd be cute if it wasn't stupid."

"Not much I can do about it."

"I think we have a living example of survival of the fittest right here." Jensen smirks, looks out over Jared's shoulder. "It ain't gonna be pretty but it's gonna happen."

"And?"

Jensen looks him in the eye. "And you're gonna get killed if you don't watch your back."

As far as conversations go, this one is sobering enough that Jared regrets trying. He could've done without Jensen rubbing in how clueless he is about all of this. No news. Nothing he hadn't already worked out on his own.

"You have any suggestions? Or do you just like to point out the obvious?" It sounds a lot braver than he feels, but Jensen doesn't need to know that.

Jensen tilts his head, moves closer until the tips of his toes are touching the tips of Jared's shoes. He leans in close enough that Jared can smell the cheap soap on his skin, the smell of deodorant, a hint of toothpaste. Somehow it smells different on Jensen than on anyone else in this place - spicier. Not that he's had a lot of opportunity to sniff other inmates. Jensen breathes in slowly, whispers in Jared's ear. "Your best bet is to stick with me."

Alarm bells go off in the back of Jensen's head, suspicion coupled with a tingle at the base of his spine at the feel of Jensen's warm breath on his ear. Shit. He's going to get himself killed just because he's too busy thinking about how nice Jensen's ass looks, or how low and seductive his voice gets. 

"Stick with you?" He manages to repeat, buying time more than anything. He'd step back if there was anywhere to go, but the iron bars pressing into his back remind him that he has nowhere to run. Not in this cell. Could hide under Jensen's bunk if he managed to squeeze under, but it's unlikely.

Jensen nods, moves back slowly, but when Jared looks down at him, Jensen's eyes are focused on something outside their cell. Noise, screaming. The smack of a night stick against bars. Laughter and swearing. Jensen is right. It's as if the entire prison is holding its breath, suspended on the precipice, waiting for a soft whoosh of air to knock it one side or the other. Between Jensen and Rich, Jared would put his money on all of this ending badly. 

"Idiots," Jensen breathes out through his teeth, jaw clenched tight. "Just a bunch of dogs fighting over the same bone."

"What's the bone?" Jared asks, genuinely curious.

"Privileges, trade, swagger and hierarchy but most of all space. We're a little short on that one."

"What kinda trade?" Jared is not stupid, he's seen inmates off their faces on fuck knows what, but he wonders how much Jensen knows and how far it stretches.

Jensen doesn't move back, but he leans against the wall at Jared's side, keeping his perfect view of the cell block. "Anything anyone can get their hands on. Cigarettes, pills, dope, coke, alcohol, porn. You name it; it's for sale. Hell, even food is. Your new pal Chad has a nice little corner shop deal going on."

Jared raises an eyebrow, not surprised so much as confused. The food in this place is shit, why would anyone want more of it?

"Joey, big guy? Walks around with that skinny little pet of his?"

Jared hates that he doesn't have to think to know who Jensen is talking about. "What about him?"

"He used to have a little dope trade. Worked real hard to get your bff Collins back on the shit. Speight found out and broke Joey's jaw." Jensen smiles to himself, as if remembering an event he still looks back on with fondness. "Then Collins found out Speight did that and broke his ribs."

"Jesus," Jared huffs, half-tempted to look over his shoulder at Misha and Rich. He didn't think Rich was making the stuff up about Misha having a temper, but, shit, he sure wasn't kidding. "You seem to know everything about everyone, but everyone knows fuck all about you."

Jensen hums, smiles serenely. "It's that way by design."

"Not healthy to have that many secrets," Jared mumbles under his breath.

"It's stupid to let people know your secrets. It turns them into weaknesses." 

Jared considers him for a moment, realizes this is the most open Jensen has ever been; suggesting he has secrets, and that they would make him weak.

"What's it to you, fish?" Jensen's eyes bore into his own, too green, especially in the light of their cell.

"When you keep secrets, people start wondering," Jared says carefully, measuring each word, trying it on for size.

"By people, you mean you."

"Why are you here?"

"Motel off the freeway didn't have vacancies."

"How long are you in for?"

"Long enough that it feels as if you're wasting my time."

"Who's Chris?"

What happens next happens so quickly, Jared barely notices until he's pinned against a wall, Jensen's arm across his throat. Jensen's face flushes, eyes dark with anger, and Jared finds he can't swallow against Jensen's forearm digging into his windpipe, a solid, immovable weight.

"You'd do well to remember, _Jared_ , that the last person who mentioned that name to my face is dead."

Jared's breath gets stuck in his throat, head spinning at the admission, making his ears ring. He knew it. Getting as good as confirmation of the fact is so not what he wanted to hear. "You killed Max Walker."

Jensen snarls, muscle next to his eye twitching, and in a surreal kind of satisfaction Jared realizes this is the first time he's seen Jensen show any emotion that isn't sarcastic amusement. Interesting. 

"Shut. Your. Mouth." 

"Or what?"

Jensen's arm presses harder, constricting Jared's windpipe until he sees spots dancing over Jensen's face. "You sure you wanna find out?"

No. He's sure he doesn't want to find out at all. "Like I said. Secrets."

Jensen exhales heavily, damn near growls at Jared, arm moving, until it's just his hand holding Jared in place against the wall by his throat. "Don't ever make the mistake of thinking I'm your friend. You are nothing to me, but a body I have to share my house with. If you drop dead tomorrow, I'll celebrate having the extra space. If you get your ass killed, I'll congratulate whoever did it. If you think you can ask me things just because I haven't ended you yet, think again."

Jared winces slightly, involuntarily, but it's hard to stay indifferent when being informed of these things. He doesn't want Jensen to think he has the upper hand, even if it's blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain cell that he does. "I'm not your friend either. So how about you stop sneaking around, gathering information about me?"

Jensen rolls his eyes, relaxes his fingers slightly. "Don't flatter yourself, sweetheart. I make it my business to know about everyone's business. You're no exception. Just another sheep in the flock."

"Don't flatter yourself, _Jensen_ ," Jared says, voice even, though he's positively shaking on the inside. "You're not that much of a wolf."

Jensen's lips twist into a smile that looks more like a grimace. "Don't be so sure. If you don't take my word for it, ask around." He tilts his head up until his face is less than an inch apart from Jared's, lips close enough they'd touch if Jared dared to let go of the breath he's holding. "I bite." 

And just like that, the warmth of another body so close to his own is gone. Jensen is back on his bunk in an instant, book back in his hand as if nothing ever happened. Jared is left standing by the bars, confused, mildly terrified, and more turned on than he's comfortable with. What else is new?

*

"Did Jensen ever mention a Chris in this secret therapy group you won't tell me about?" Jared keeps his eyes on the onions he's chopping, doing his best not to give into the burning of his eyes. Fucking onions.

"The whole point of it being secret, and me not telling you about it, is that I can't tell you about it," Misha answers, stirring a big pot of soup on the stove next to Jared. "And are you done with those onions yet? You're gonna ruin the entire thing by being slow."

"It's just soup, Mish. It'll taste shit no matter what we do to it."

"Fuck off and stay the fuck away from my soup."

"You didn't answer my question."

Misha adjusts his apron, wipes a hand on the stiff fabric. "I did. I said 'I can't tell you about it'."

"Can't or don't want to?"

"It doesn't matter. They both come down to 'I won't'."

Jared sighs, rubs a hand over his face to make it stop stinging, and while that doesn't succeed he does manage to rub onion under his eye. "Mother _fuck!_ "

Misha puts down his spoon to run a dish cloth under cold water. "You big idiot. Rule number one of onion chopping: do not touch your face."

"You tell me this now?" Jared whines, pressing the cold cloth to his face and trying not to think about where it's been. "Stop avoiding the question."

"Stop rubbing onions in your eyes!"

"I didn't fucking rub onions in my eyes!"

"Then what are you crying about?"

Jared groans, flings the dish cloth in Misha's direction and immediately regrets doing that, because now it's gone, and he can't use it to ease the throbbing of his eyes anymore. 

"Nemo, why're you crying?" Rich appears next to them, leaning in to study Jared. "What happened? Mish say something mean to you?"

"He's just a big baby," Misha mumbles, picking up his spoon again and re-focusing on his soup.

"Onions sting," Jared grinds out, eyeing the onions on the counter with suspicion.

"That's why you're not supposed to rub them in your eyes," Rich says seriously, patting him on the back.

"Yeah, thanks so much for that."

Rich turns towards Misha, points over his shoulder at Jared. "What'd he do?"

"He's asking questions again," Misha shrugs, all attention on the pot in front of him.

"Nemo. Stop being... stupid."

Jared raises his eyebrows at the non-creative comment. How unusual. Something must really be up. "Thanks for the insight."

"Ackles is dangerous. And what's going on up in here now? He relishes it. Lives for it. Bet he's jerking off to it as we speak, fucking weirdo."

"I think he's worried," Jared offers, picking up his knife hesitantly.

"How could you tell?" Misha frowns. "His permanent expression is either amusement or blank."

"Even in therapy?" Jared tries.

Misha smiles. "You're not gonna give up, are ya?"

"Just give me something?"

Rich and Misha exchange looks, and Jared yet again feels as if an entire conversation is going on around him. Whatever the nature of the conversation, Misha concedes. 

"Alright then, I'll tell you what it was for," Misha says slowly, drawing out the words as if he really does not want to tell Jared anything at all. "Seeing as there are plenty other cons around here who know what it was for, there's no harm in telling you."

"But you will still keep your big mouth shut," Rich warns him.

Jared nods wordlessly, eager to hear what Misha has to say, even if he feels a bit bad for making him tell him.

Misha chews on his lip for a moment before speaking up. "It was basically... like... a trauma recovery type thing."

Jared's mind kicks into overdrive, and he has to force himself to stay focused on the words coming out of Misha's mouth.

"Small group of people, the idea was that we could have a place to talk in here where we didn't have to... put on a mask and be invincible." Misha swallows, stubbornly keeps his eyes on the soup. 

"But it didn't work out?"

Misha glances up at him quickly. "It made it worse. Well, in a way. It was me and Ackles and two other guys. The other two... it made them nervous that other people knew so much, something so... personal about them."

Jared's got a funny feeling he knows where this story is going. 

"They were winding each other up, like a goddamn cold war going on, paranoia skyrocketing, and they offed each other."

"Jesus," Jared breathes out.

"Yeah. After that it was decided that therapy groups were good for things like substance abuse, or anger management, or things like that, that are personal but less threatening to the individual."

"D'you miss it?"

"In a way, yes. It was stressful at the time, picking at scabs to make them heal 'better'." Misha's eyes land on Rich, and he smiles slightly. 

"I'm sorry it ended," Jared says, genuinely sorry that Misha lost an important form of support, but the feeling is the same for Jensen. Although that one is mixed with more curiosity. What happened to Jensen? Was it something like what happened to Misha? Something else entirely? Something that happened in prison or before? Something that had something to do with why he's here?"

He knows there is no way in hell Misha would tell him, and he kind of admires Misha for that, but at the same time wants to point out that Jensen had no problem whatsoever telling him about Misha. It's how Jared found out, because Jensen told him, and that does not sit well with him at all. Then again, Misha knows as much, said before that it doesn't matter if other people break their promises, he's not about to. 

"Can I please have those damn onions now?"

The rest of the day goes by like any other. He chops. He stirs. He dishes out shitty food. He does dishes and watches a few spats over dinner get ugly. Who would have thought plastic forks could do quite so much damage when aimed at a soft spot? Pretty soon they'll be switching to paper cutlery or eating with their hands like the savages they are. Jared draws the short straw, and is left in charge of cleaning up the blood after the canteen has emptied. It's not anything he's ever had any desire to do, but it is oddly calming in a way that makes him wonder if he's finally lost his marbles. Methodically cleaning frees up his mind to wonder about Jensen. If he had a death wish, he'd bring it up tonight. Mention that he found out what the therapy group was about, hint, suggest, step back and watch Jensen react.

He's fairly sure being on the other end of that response is the most dangerous place he can be. Given how Jensen reacted at the mere mention of Chris, Jared doesn't like his odds of surviving another round of small talk.

He rinses out the cloth in the bucket next to him. It's impressive how much blood a human body can lose while still being able to function. At least, he assumes this one is still functioning, if not, he would've heard about it by now. 

"Anyone ever tell you you're suspiciously good at cleaning up blood?"

Jared looks up quickly, eyes finding a pair of sneakers a few feet in front of him, but he doesn't have to look up further to know who it is. "Jensen." He glances at the guard sitting a few tables away, reading a newspaper. The last remaining few of the kitchen staff are too busy putting things away to pay them any attention, but Jared wonders why the guard doesn't say anything. "Aren't you supposed to be in your cell?"

Jensen snorts, pulls out a chair and sits down in front of Jared. "Late session with the doc. They prefer I... what's the phrase... 'walk it off' before they stick me back in a cell with you for the night."

_Resocialization experiment_ flashes through his head, and he curses every brain doctor in this place for using him as bait. "So they just let you wander around free?"

"Free? Aww, Jared, you poor thing, this place is getting to you. Fucking with your mind." Jensen lifts his feet up on the table as Jared goes back to scrubbing at the floor. "There's no such thing as free in here. Seventy percent is never getting out. Of the thirty that will get out, half of them don't make it out alive. You do the math."

"Which percentage do you belong to?"

The last thing he expects is for Jensen to reply. It catches him off guard enough that he finally looks up.

"I ain't ever getting out of here," Jensen drawls, corners of his mouth curled up. He crosses his arms over his chest and pushes back from the table, balancing the chair on its hind legs. "Which makes for an interesting mind set. You see, I don't really have anything to lose."

Jared swallows thickly, unwilling to let Jensen see that the thinly veiled threat is getting to him. "Got your life to lose."

"And what a life it is. This ain't life, Jared. This is like... it's like purgatory. Transitional. Eventually, we all move on from here, most of us dead. Some of us alive, only to repeat the same mistakes once we're out, because we don't know any better anymore."

And the prize for most depressing con in this place goes to...

"This place don't teach anyone how to go back to a normal life. It teaches you to be on your guard, trust no one, expect that knife in your back and stick it in someone else before it gets to that. Kill or get killed. Lie. Cheat. Manipulate. It's what you gotta do to survive."

"Not everyone thinks like that," Jared mumbles, watching red-tinted water run over his fingers.

"True. You don't. Cause you ain't been here long enough, and you're too stupid to see that's what it takes. Everybody else, hell, even Collins and Speight. They know what it's about."

"They wouldn't kill just so they don't get killed, because no one wants to kill them."

"Keep telling yourself that. Collins was happy to snap everyone's neck when he got here. I don't know what kinda meds they got him on now, but he is mellow and high like a kite."

"He's not." Fuck no, he's not, Jared's seen him. He's just got a very tight lease on the temper Jensen just described to him.

"Speight would rip someone limb for limb if he thought they were a threat. He'd tear you apart if he thought you would turn on them. They know better than to trust. Which is why they won't survive outside."

"Guess you don't have to worry about that with your sentence then."

Jensen hums, a sound that is quickly getting on Jared's nerves. "Life without parole. It's a beautiful thing once you come around to it. See, once I feel that I'm done, bored, kinda tired of it all, I can just quit, and I won't be losing anything. I could take as many people down as I wanted to and get myself a nice cell on death row like your buddy Alex."

"Don't talk to me about Alex." He has pushed Alex all the way down, in a deep dark place, where all things he can't deal with are hidden. Jensen doesn't get to touch that, hell, Jared will show him what snapping means if he tries.

"But that's what I came here to talk to you about." Jensen sticks out his bottom lip, and Jared wants to grab him by the neck and drown him in the bucket of blood-water but he's still got a thing or two to lose, and his temper isn't one of them.

"I heard something interesting just now on my way back," Jensen continues, tracing a fingertip over his lip thoughtfully. "They've set a date for his execution."

The bottom falls out of Jared's world. "What?"

"This Friday."

Jared sways slightly, hand flying out to catch a chair and keep his balance. _Friday_. 

Three days from now Alex will be dead.

*

"Coffee for you. Two pancakes, extra butter, maple syrup and bacon. And..." Misha winces slightly at the magazine in his hand. "Sorry man, this was the best I could do."

People Magazine is put down next to Jared's breakfast, bright headlines and pictures screaming up at him. He looks from the spread to Misha.

"I'm fine."

Misha sighs, turns around and checks on the line for breakfast. It's mostly gone, Rich and Tom more than capable of handling it on their own. "Of course you are."

"How did you even know?"

"Word travels fast around here," Misha shrugs. "Guards are kinda shit at keeping their mouths shut around inmates as well."

"You gonna sit down?"

"You want me to?" 

Jared rolls his eyes and nods at the chair in front of him. One of the perks of working in the kitchen; eating in the back of the kitchen away from all the noise. "Did you hear anything about the guy that got stabbed last night?"

"Jones." Misha takes a sip of coffee and stares down at his bowl of porridge in confusion. "Why did I..." He looks around, finds a bowl of cereal on the counter next to them. He swaps them quickly and sits down again. "Jones. Yes. He, uh... got transferred to St Francisville. Not looking too good, apparently. No pun intended."

Jared winces, memory of the guy's blood sticking to his fingers a bit too fresh in his mind. 

"Someone in Block A got killed last night. It looked like he hung himself with a sheet, but it's all a bit fishy."

"Not just us then?"

Misha gives him a sympathetic smile. "When this place goes boom, all of it does."

Brilliant. He can't fucking wait.

"So. Would you like me to ask you about Alex, or should I just read out headlines of People to you?"

"Headlines." Jared cuts up his pancakes, buying time because he's really not hungry.

"Alrighty." Misha picks up the magazine and starts flicking through. "Tom Cruise offended someone. Angelina Jolie adopted another kid. Oh, that one Kardashian got married." He frowns down at his cereal, spoon suspended in mid air. 

"You alright?"

Misha doesn't respond, keeps staring at the cereal like he has no idea how it got there. 

"Mish?"

Misha jerks, looks up at Jared, but there's an edge to his expression that has Jared lean back slightly. One moment everything is tense, before Misha's face relaxes. "Shit. I'm sorry. What were you saying?"

"Are you alright?" Jared puts his plate of pancakes aside and studies Misha. He looks paler than usual, a bit jittery. "You want me to get Rich?"

Misha shakes his head, fingers coming up to play with his hair. "No. I'm fine. Thank you. So, Alex."

There's no point in pushing when Misha clearly does not want to talk about whatever is going on. Jared is in no mood to talk either though, so they finish staring at their breakfast in silence.

Jared keeps to himself for the rest of the morning, but he goes to find Rich in the stock room just before lunch.

"Nemo, my man, how you doing?" Rich doesn't even turn around, somehow knows it's him.

"Is Misha alright?"

Rich drops the can of tomatoes he's holding and turns around. "Why? What happened?"

Jared holds up a hand. "Hey, easy. Nothing happened."

"Clearly it did." Rich steps closer, fists clenched tight, and Jared feels a headache building behind his eyes.

"Jesus Christ what the fuck is with everyone? Can you just shut up for a minute and listen to me?"

Rich's eyes widen. He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn't say another word.

Right. Jared clears his throat. "He seems a bit distracted. Got very confused over his breakfast. He seems a bit out of it."

Rich deflates, looks away. How unusual. "Yeah, alright. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?"

"I've got this. Trust me."

Well what is he supposed to say to that?

There's too much on his mind, too much going on around him. It makes the day drag more than any other. Makes him on edge for a slightly different reason than everyone else. It feels as if his brain is getting too big for his skull, can't keep it in. Maybe this is what exploding feels like. Maybe this is what people feel like just before they 'snap'.

He's glad to be back in his cell that night, even happier that Jensen chooses to ignore him. Once the lights go out, he quickly realizes it's impossible to fall asleep. If he falls asleep, and wakes up tomorrow, it will be one more night until Alex is dead. He takes a deep breath, tries to push the thoughts away, but every time he closes his eyes he sees Alex in his cell. Hears Alex tell him it's alright.

It's not alright.

Exhaustion catches up with him eventually, and he falls into a fitful sleep where his nightmares grab a hold of him almost instantly. He sees the girl in the store, the hole in her head, blood trickling out, lifeless eyes staring at him accusingly. He sees Alex, strapped to a gurney, one arm bare as people walk around him, setting up his lethal dose of whatever the fuck they use to kill people. And he's there, sitting with the spectators. All of these people who get something out of watching someone die. Because he wronged them. Because they think he deserves it. The girl's parents are there, her brother. They all smile serenely, eager to watch Alex breathe his last breath, before he goes quiet forever.

He awakes with a start, breath catching in his throat, heart pounding loud enough that he's certain it will wake up the entire cell block.

"Fuck," he whispers into the darkness. He sits up slowly, trying to catch his breath. It's useless. He has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Too early for anyone to be awake, but early enough that there's no point in going back to sleep. Tonight, Alex gets to pick his last meal. Guards will be there, taking his preference, ignoring the fact that they are going to kill him tomorrow.

_Tomorrow._

One more day on earth, but Alex gets to spend it away from everyone, isolated. No one of his family will come visit him. Too far away, they don't care enough. He'll be surrounded by strangers, and, tomorrow, the last thing he'll see when they strap him down, will be the faces of people who can't wait to watch him die. Payback for what he did to their little girl.

The guilt nearly crushes him, and, not for the first time he wishes he'd have gotten what he deserved. He masterminded the whole thing. He should've known Alex would spiral out of control. Hell, he probably did know; he just didn't care. He can be out in a few years, but Alex will be dead, and the girl will be dead, and Jared shouldn't be able to walk away from that.

It occurs to him then that Jensen was right. Even if he may be part of the small group of people that make it out of here alive, he can never go back to living a normal life. He won't fit in anymore. He hasn't been here that long, but already he's seen too much blood to ever wash off. 

"Go back to sleep."

Jared nearly jumps off the bed at the sudden sound of Jensen's voice. "The fuck?" He whispers. "Do you ever fucking sleep?"

"I would if you stopped being such a ball of angst for one night."

Jensen's voice sounds muffled, as if his face is smushed into his pillow.

"I'm not doing anything. Sorry if me breathing is keeping you awake," Jared snaps, leaning against the cool brick wall next to him.

"He's gonna die, alright? Ain't nothing you can do about it. And he should die, 'cause he killed that girl."

"Go to hell. You don't know anything."

"You wanna tell me any of that's not true?"

Jared grits his teeth. "It was my fault-"

"Oh for Christ's sake, can you please lay off the tortured soul for five minutes?" Sheets shifting suggests Jensen is sitting up. "There are no innocent cons in prison, alright? This isn't some fancy TV show with poor people wrongly convicted. Every single one of us deserves to be here."

"Including you?"

"Whatever has you thinking I'm privy to some sort of God complex, forget about it. Yes, including me."

"But he doesn't deserve to die."

"Maybe he does, maybe he doesn't. That's not really up to you to decide now, is it?"

"It's not right."

"Uh-huh, tell me, you ever love somebody?"

Jared frowns, caught off guard by the question. "Sure."

Jensen snorts. "Sure?"

"Of course I have."

"Good, now picture them being killed by someone, just because they were in the way. Not because they did anything wrong, it was just a wrong place wrong time kinda deal."

He considers it. Someone hurting his mom, or Sandy. "I'd want whoever did it dead."

"Exactly. Now, are you really gonna deny the family of that poor girl the pleasure of watching the life seep out of Alex? I think it's the least they deserve, don't you?"

Jared scrapes a hand over the coarse bricks, trying to focus on the scratch against his skin. "You just know everything, don't you?"

"No need to sound so bitter, Jay. Give it a few years of being in and out of here. You'll grow to learn how the world works, just like me."

"Not your first time in prison then?"

"You didn't really think it was, hm?"

To be honest, he hadn't given it all that much thought. More interested in working out why Jensen was in now, rather than what he'd been up to before. A history of in and out of prison would definitely explain why nothing about this place fazes him though; how he manages to stay alive even though he's alone.

"Now, seeing as you've woken me up, yet again. And it's gonna be impossible to fall asleep after this nice little chat, again. How about you make good on your promise?"

"Finally decided on what you want from me then?" Jared closes his eyes, not so much surprised at Jensen's randomness, but definitely annoyed at the casualness with which it's brought up. 

"Oh I knew what I wanted all along," Jensen says, vowels drawn out, "I just think you're in more of a position to want to give it to me now."

"Why? Why on earth would you think that?"

"Just a hunch." 

Jared can practically hear the smile in Jensen's voice, doesn't need to look to know that Jensen has this pleased expression on his face; smug in the knowledge that nothing can get him. "You're wrong."

"Might take your mind off things."

"You don't seem like the kind to reciprocate." Every word out of his mouth tangles him more in Jensen's sticky web. 

"Would you like me to?" 

"Does it matter?"

"You're getting better at not answering questions. I think if you stick with me a few more months, you may actually have a fighting chance of surviving."

"I'm not gonna be like you." 

"Famous last words, Jared."

*

"I'm not kidding, man. You know Rio? Brings library books around? Yeah, he was at the reception center to help with a new load of books. Says there's about twenty people there, picketing." Tom keeps scrubbing oven dishes as he talks excitedly.

"Not the first time," Rich shrugs, but he eyes Jared carefully.

"So they're protesting against the execution?" Jared gave up on pretending to do any kind of work a while ago. Instead, he's sitting on a dry part of the kitchen counter, legs swinging slowly.

"Some of them will be," Misha comments from the sink on the other side. "There will be those that are all for the death penalty. And then they'll get into it and maybe try to get some hits in or something."

"Does this always happen?"

"Usually." Rich leans against one of the fridges, looks at the inmates moving around the canteen. "It'll be worse 'cause he's young. Gets all the liberal locals in a twist."

"But there are no locals around here," Jared says, memory of how far away from everywhere they are fresh in his mind.

"Oh they drive up, down, come from every which way," Rich says. "They'll camp out and harass anyone who goes in or out. Really pisses off the guards."

"But it won't make a difference," Jared mumbles, staring down at his hands in his lap.

"Of course not. Warden don't make the rules. Guards sure as fuck don't. They're just doing their jobs."

"Did they set a time?" Tom asks, pushing some hair back out of his eyes.

"Never do," Misha responds. "No one but the warden and those doing the executing know what time it will happen. To prevent people from losing their shit."

"So he could be dead or alive at any time between midnight and tomorrow midnight?" Jared hangs his head, tries to process that information. He won't know for sure, has no way of knowing.

"Try not to think about it?" Misha offers half-heartedly.

Yeah, it's going on a long list of things he can't let himself think about. His hand twitches. Breath hitches. He's used to feeling as if he's stretched too thin. The feeling of hanging on by the last of his willpower too familiar.

Over the course of the day, things get impossibly more tense. Guards come in, change shifts, get increasingly snappish. Even the nice ones. Hell, Jared even sees Dugas restrain an inmate with a bit more force than necessary. It must be getting to them. As for the inmates, they take advantage, sniff it out in the air, the smell of irritation, finality. It's like a charge to them, making them one mass of rage that's being held in check by invisible rope.

Just a matter of time before it ruptures.

By dinner, Jared's heard word of four inmates being sent to the hole, six fights being broken up, and one guard narrowly escaping three inmates cornering him. Seems like it's time to lock the place down, but no such thing happens.

Dinner comes and goes, cleaning up after is a bit of a blur though he's aware people are watching him, to see if he will react. Fuck them all, he's not going to react at all. The bars closing behind him that night are a welcome relief. Jensen is reading, as usual, and Jared climbs up to his bunk. He crosses his legs, leans against the wall and watches the cell block. Cells, stacked like boxes, two bodies moving around in each of them. Going about their business in this miniature world like it means something to someone. How many of them will never make it out? How many will make a mistake before making parole and get their sentences turned to life. Or the death penalty?

Could be him. If he finally collapses, sticks a sharp object in Jensen's jugular just for the satisfaction of seeing the surprise in his eyes as he bleeds out. He'd never see it coming. 

It's not worth it.

Like most nights, it's as if Jensen waits for lights to go out before he starts picking at Jared. That's what it feels like, as if Jensen is picking him apart with the skill of a surgeon, poking this, pulling that, just to see how Jared will react. No different now.

"I brought your buddy his last meal tonight," Jensen says casually, as if he's mentioning the score to the latest football game.

"Good for you."

"Good for him, more like." Jensen pauses for a moment. "Chicken Gumbo, crawfish, red beans and rice. Damn. Your boy's a real Louisiana made man, isn't he?"

Jared closes his eyes, forces back the tears that burn hot and unexpectedly behind his eyes. 

"How'd you meet him anyway?"

"None of your business."

Jensen gets up from his bunk, leans against the wall opposite their bunks. Jared can't see him very well in the dim light; silhouette, but shadows hide most of his face.

"He seemed quite mellow for someone who's a tick of the clock away from dying."

Jared's off his bunk in a heartbeat, feet landing on the floor with a heavy thud. He's in Jensen's face, hand at Jensen's throat, his whole weight pressing Jensen into the wall behind him, tables turned for once.

And Jensen. Doesn't. Fucking. Blink.

"Stop talking to me about Alex," Jared hisses, keeping his voice low so as not to attract any unwanted attention.

Jensen smiles, tongue tracing the top of his teeth. "Why?"

"Because I fucking say so."

In an instant, Jared is pushed back, spun around, their places reversed as Jensen presses him into the wall, a hand over Jared's mouth to keep any sound from escaping.

Jensen tilts his head, leans in slightly. "You need to hear it. He is going to die. And you are going to live."

Jared shakes his head, tries to push Jensen away, but Jensen effortlessly holds him in place.

"You are going to live and maybe there ain't nothing fair about that. Maybe you deserve to die as much as he does, or hell, maybe he deserves a nice little cell here in C-Wing."

Jared's completely immobilized, incapable of even moving his legs.

"It doesn't matter. You got a few years to get through, and then you're getting out, you fucking idiot. Take that. Forget about this."

Jared shakes his head again, and Jensen raises an eyebrow before lifting his hand slowly, allowing Jared to speak. Jared opens his mouth to give Jensen a piece of his mind, but he doesn't get a chance when, without warning, Jensen moves forward and kisses him harshly. It doesn't last more than a few seconds, has more anger behind it than anything else. A hard press of dry lips on his own, there for an instant, gone the next.

When Jensen pulls back, Jared gasps for air, mind reeling, trying to make sense of what the fuck just happened. Jensen remains in his space for a moment, watches him closely, his face unreadable. 

One moment, then he's gone. Back in his bunk, his back turned to Jared, and Jared sags against the wall. What the everloving fuck just happened? He stays at the wall for a good five minutes, maybe longer. When he finally picks himself up and climbs back into his bunk, the voices in his head still haven't died down.

If he didn't know any better - which he does - but if he didn't, he'd say it's almost as if Jensen gives a fuck.

Jared doesn't sleep, didn't expect he could, though Jensen has gone a long way towards taking his mind off Alex. When the guard comes to get him out of his cell, Jared catches Jensen's eye for a moment, and he's convinced Jensen didn't sleep either. 

*

The kitchen feels like zombie wasteland, the staff walking around quietly, guards huddled in a corner whispering. All holding their breath, waiting. Suddenly, there is no doubt in Jared's mind that Alex's execution will be what pulls the trigger on this place. 

When it happens, it's almost understated. It's nearing the end of lunch time, with most inmates wandering around, waiting for the next buzzer to signal it's time to get back to work. Jared is on his way to his cell to get a dry shirt, after Rich felt it was necessary to throw wet dish cloths at him. His shirt is mostly soaked through, and he's not really in the mood to be doing any sort of wet t-shirt contests.

He walks into the cell block, humming a nameless tune to himself, then stops. There are way too many people in the block for this time of day. A group of four of them is standing around Dugas and one of the younger guards. The biggest one of them, Jared recognizes his face but can't remember his name, is standing about a foot away from Dugas. That is when Jared notices they are split. Of the cons present, the White ones are at the far end, looking ready to jump, the Black ones are at Jared's side, ready to strike, the guards caught in between them.

As much as he doesn't buy into the whole racial divide thing, he's very conscious of the fact that he is on the wrong side of the block right now. Both groups are yelling at each other. The guards are requesting back up, but in the end it's a White guy, young, cocky, like so many cons in here, that shoves the Black inmate in front of him, and all hell breaks loose.

Within seconds, the neatly separated groups become one angry mob of noise, screams and shouts heard over people going at each other as if they have nothing to lose. They charge into each other, fists flying, shine of metal glinting in the light making Jared's heart skip a beat. And another. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, of screams all around him, is making his ears ring. He's frozen in shock, unable to look away, unable to move away and hide somewhere safe.

Blood paints the floor red, like the world's most boring painting; red on gray concrete, just one color. People start falling – bodies. His surroundings blur, change, until he's not sure he's even awake anymore. Everything seems far away. The door opens behind him, inmates and guards rush in, pushing him out of the way, so he stumbles and falls to his knees. The pain shooting up his spine barely registers. Suddenly he's not in the cell block anymore.

He's back in the liquor store. He looks up, expects to see the girl there, but the person he finds behind the counter is Alex.

Alex with a gaping hole in his head, blood trickling down over his face in little rivers that pool and move in ways he didn't know blood could move. Blood drips from his mouth as well, landing on the counter, on Jared's hands leaning on the cold surface.

Jared shakes his head. This is not how it's supposed to go. It's not right.

Alex's blue eyes stare at him, glassy, lifeless. His mouth opens, and a breath rasps out when it shouldn't be able to.

"Why did you kill me?"

"I didn't," Jared whispers, hand grabbing Alex's wrist, shockingly cold against his skin. "Please, Alex. I'm sorry."

Alex chuckles, and it's the most horrifying, nauseating and bone-chilling sound Jared has ever heard.

"Should've thought of that before you killed me."

The scream gets stuck in his throat when Alex collapses to the side, into the chips stand. A sharp pain sears through him, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading out, out, out. Jared watches everything tumble to the floor helplessly, stuck in place. Hands grab him from behind, pull at him, but he can't move, and he can't leave Alex.

_"Move."_

"I can't," he gasps, tries to stay with Alex. He needs to do something, call someone, save him.

The hands are insistent and shove him to the side, where he lands on the floor yet again, this time curled in a heap. The shock of the impact shivers him out of it. He opens his eyes to find he's lying in a cell.

It's not his cell.

He's not alone.

Jensen is standing near the bars, something shiny in his hand, seemingly ready to strike anyone who comes too close.

Jesus.

He's distantly aware of his shirt being wet, then remembers that's why he came back to his cell in the first place; to get a dry shirt. He sits up, leans against the wall and looks down at himself in confusion. The wetness wasn't this warm before.

The front of his shirt is colored red, a scrap of metal sticking out of it. He frowns at it, pokes it, but it doesn't hurt.

"Stop that!" Jensen snaps. "Do you want to bleed out?"

Jared shakes his head. He's not sure of many things at the moment, but he's fairly sure he has no desire to bleed out. They'd probably make him clean up after himself, and one bloody clean-up a week is enough, thank you.

"Sit still. Don't move. Don't touch it."

Seems simple enough. Jared tries not to move, then realizes he needs to breathe, but that involves moving, and he's not sure if it's covered by Jensen's warning. He holds off until the world starts to spin before he gulps in air and immediately starts coughing.

"What on God's green earth are you doing, you idiot?"

"Sorry. Need to breathe."

Jensen is standing in front of him, looking down at him, but he's too tall for Jared to see his face.

"Hang in there, alright?"

Hang in where? How? He can barely stay upright as it is. Jensen is being unusually demanding. But the wall is comfier than he remembers it being, and Jensen seems to be in control of things so maybe... if he just... has a little nap.

"Jared! Damn it, Jared, stay with me." 

Someone slaps him in the face, and Jared grunts in response. Mean. He just wants to sleep for a while. If everyone would just leave him alone for a little while.

"We need some help here!" Someone shouts, but he's not sure who, or how far away they are. Somewhere, on the periphery of his mind, he's aware that he's in danger. Last thing he remembers is inmates going at each other like there's no tomorrow. Judging by the noise, the screams coming from outside the cell, it's not over yet.

Jensen is back in front of him, hands touching Jared, prodding him in a way Jared decides is quite unpleasant.

"Gerrof me," he slurs, hands trying to push Jensen away.

"Look at me, hey! Look. At. Me."

Jared hadn't realized he closed his eyes. When he opens them, Jensen is in his face, wide green eyes, like grass. Soft between his toes. There's blood on Jensen's cheeks, smudged. Not his own. Jared's eyes drift down to Jensen's hand to see a bloody shard of glass clutched in his fingers.

"Did ya kill someone?"

"Shut up."

"There's something in my stomach."

"Yeah. No shit. Try not to move, or you'll rupture something."

"Alright." He shifts, pushes himself up a bit further, ignoring Jensen's protests. "Wait. Did you stick this... thing in me?"

Jensen is quiet long enough that Jared looks back up, searching Jensen's eyes. When he finds them, there is something lurking behind the green. Something he can't name, probably wouldn't recognize even if the world was in focus. Interesting. 

"Jen-sen? Did ya-"

"I didn't," Jensen says, voice sounding funny. Not as if he's lying. Just funny. At least Jared thinks it does.

"Alright. Can you gimme some water please?"

"No."

"But 'm thirsty."

"I don't care."

Jared frowns, leans back against the wall again. "Then why're you here?"

"Shut. Up."

"Oh. Sorry." It must be bedtime now. Why isn't the buzzer sounding? Why aren't they in their own cell? "Jensen?"

"What?"

"Can we go back to our cell now?"

"No."

"Why not?" He's whining, can tell, but if it gets his message across he's not too bothered.

"Because everyone outside of this cell is trying to slaughter each other."

"Oh."

"Fucking stop saying oh."

"Who did you kill?"

"None of your Goddamn business."

"So you killed someone?"

"If you don't shut up right now, I may change my mind about sticking this thing in your other side, comprende?"

"Sorry." Fine then. Jensen can take care of this. Jared's in no mood to stay up any longer. Everything is starting to fray a little around the edges, and his shirt feels a lot wetter than it did before. Given that all of it appears to be red, and now also sticking to his fingers, there's a good chance he's going back on his word and bleeding out. Awesome. Maybe he'll get lucky enough to die the same day Alex does.

Maybe justice will be served after all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Candygramme for betaing and fixing all my nonexistent commas :) All remaining mistakes are my own.

When Jared wakes up, he's somewhere new. Somewhere he hasn't been before.

Heaven?

Yeah, obviously.

The second thing that registers is that something is wrapped around his waist. His throat is dry as sawdust. Noise filters in from further away, nondescript, but frantic. The hypnotic chaos of the aftermath of something awful. He starts to sit up, but immediately stops when pain shoots through him hot and sharp. Perfect. A quick look around makes him think he must be at the infirmary. There are more beds around him, with inmates on them, and a lonely nurse walks around checking on them. All beds are full.

"Ah, you're awake." The nurse takes quick steps towards him, and Jared recognizes her as the nurse that bandaged him up before he went on a one week, all expenses paid for vacation to the hole. "How're you feeling?"

"Sore?" The word itches up his throat, comes out more like a growl than speech.

"Mm, yeah I can imagine. Nothing vital was ruptured so we stitched you back up. You did lose quite a bit of blood." She scribbles something on a chart hanging by his bed before looking at him. "Any other complaints? Does it hurt anywhere else?"

He shakes his head, reaches out for the glass of water she gives him. The water slides down his throat like silk stroking over feverish skin. He gulps until the cup is empty then hands it back to her. She's standing by his bed, hand in her side, looking on with amusement.

"What happened?"

The smile is gone from her face instantly, as if someone – he – snuffed it out. "Riot. It went through the entire prison like dominos. Started in your wing and didn't really stop."  
"Fuck." He remembers bits, remembers how it started, and then being in a cell with Jensen, but it's all blurry like an abstract memory, lacking in specifics or focused details.

"Guards still don't have control of A and E wing, all others are back under control. It's been a busy evening."

No shit. 

"Look, eh," she glances down at the chart, "Jared. I'd usually let you stay the night, but quite frankly, if you're not on your way to death I'm afraid I'm gonna need your bed."

"Oh." Death? "Yeah, of course."

"I'll give you something for the pain, and I'll have someone come check on you tomorrow."

"Thank you."

"Don't mention it." She waves at a guard standing at the door. "Right. One Jared Padalecki, discharged to C-Wing. Please take this now." She hands him a pill and the cup of water.  
He takes the pill, swallows it dry.

"Well done. Open your mouth? Lift your tongue? Alright, you're good to go."

The guard helps him sit up on his bed, and he really, really wishes he could just stay here and not move ever again because fuck that hurts. It's like he can still feel the shard sticking into him. His clothes have been changed, a clean pair of black sweatpants and a white t-shirt that hangs off him, brushes against his stomach when he shifts. He winces, and the guard mumbles something at the nurse.

"I know, Frank. I don't have a bed to spare." She wanders off again, the clicking of her heels shockingly loud on the tiled floor.

"Alright man, try not to fall over on our way back, huh?" The guard cuffs him.

Jared nods, while he really wants to roll his eyes and tell 'Frank' to fuck off. As soon as he's upright the world sways around him slowly, like he's watching through a distorted lens. He can't remember the last thing he ate, but whatever it was, it may be making a speedy reappearance. He takes a moment to find his balance before he slowly starts to shuffle towards the door. On his way, he sees the nurse was right; pretty much everyone in this place is looking a lot worse than he is. Some of them aren't even conscious, and Jared has a funny feeling they're not sleeping.

"Here we go, Padalecki." Frank holds the door open for him and waits for him to shuffle through to the reception room.

Jared wishes he hadn't. The floor is painted red, footsteps in it, spiraling out this way and the other. A nurse is sitting at the computer, blood splattered on her scrubs, frozen shock on her face. It looks like a war zone, as if someone came in and went on a shooting spree. Through the glass door across he can see two doctors running around, shouting orders, rushing from bed to bed. Fuck, this really got out of hand a lot more than he thought.

Fear tickles up his spine suddenly. He looks over his shoulder at Frank. "Did anyone die?"

Frank huffs out a breath, shakes his head. "Look around. Of course people died."

Frank is not from C-Wing, and Jared decides quickly that he doesn't like Frank all that much. Even as far as guards go, Frank can fuck off right back to whichever wing he came from. "Anyone I know?"

They make their way out of the infirmary and across the yard to Jared's wing. The entire place looks deserted, apart from movement surrounding the two buildings furthest away from the entrance. Must be wings A and E.

"I don't know you, and I don't know who you know. Keep walking, I got stuff to do."

 _Fuck._ Jared tries to speed up, get back to his cell quicker. What if something happened to Misha? Rich? Tom? He's not worried about Jensen, somehow convinced Jensen can handle himself in pretty much any situation. 

By the time they get to C wing Frank has lost all interest in Jared or getting him back to his cell. He's busy on his phone, tapping keys, maybe texting his wife to let her know he's fine. And here Jared thought cell phones weren't allowed in here, not for inmates, not for guards. He nearly gets the heavy outside door slammed in his face, hand shooting out just in time to hold it open. The sudden weight forces him to tense up, catch the door, and everything goes black for a few terrifying moments.

"Jesus _fuck_." He leans against the door, tries to catch his breath.

"Move it, Padalecki."

"What do you think I'm doing?" 

Frank raises an eyebrow, hand lightly touching his night stick in what must be an unconscious move. Safety net. Good for him. "You wanna get mouthy with me?"

Jared straightens up. "No, sir."

"That's what I thought." Frank points at the next door. One door and he'll be back in his cell block. His feet are heavy, anticipation tightening his throat. God knows what he'll find on the other side of the door. At least he knows there's still a wing to go back to or they wouldn't be here.

When the door opens and he shuffles in slowly, he quickly realizes that about sums it up. The noise is overwhelming, people screaming, shouting from their cells, a whirlwind of anger and energy that swallows him up instantly. The floor stretching out in front of him is covered in rubbish; toilet paper, food wrappers, papers, plastic, broken glass. Blood drops are sprinkled across the mess, adding a gruesomely festive effect. There are other substances that Jared doesn't want to think too closely about. Guards are mopping, the smell of disinfectant spray heavy in the air.

As he steps past the cells, doing the best he can to be quick about it, the shouts focus on him. He can't make out words, has no particular desire to hear what they have to say, but his eyes search the cells. He speeds up when he gets closer to his cell, turning to look over at Misha and Rich's cell.

A cold blanket covers him when he sees Rich, sitting cross-legged on Misha's bunk, head in his hands. 

He's alone.

"No," Jared whispers, starts to walk towards the cell but a heavy hand on his shoulder stops him and steers him back to his own cell. "I don't think so, Padalecki."

He can't take his eyes off of Rich, mind racing as he tries to make sense of what it means, but the thoughts are sluggish like molasses, refusing to form. He doesn't notice Frank unlocking his cuffs until he's shoved inside his cell unceremoniously, and even the pain doesn't quite penetrate the fog in his mind. He stays at the bars, watches them slide shut. Rich hasn't moved an inch. 

Frank walks off, and Jared's hands curl around the bars in front of him as he keeps watching, part holding him up, part just holding on. If Rich would just look up, show some kind of sign of being alright. If he could give Jared a signal to let him know Misha is fine, just getting stitched up or something, like Jared was moments ago. He'll be fine. He'll be back soon. The alternative is not something he can think about.

"Think you're bunk's comfier."

He jumps at the voice behind him, spins around too quickly and instantly doubles over in pain. His breath wheezes out of him, pain a hot center in his stomach that he can't get away from.

"Or you can stand there and wait till you pass out. That works too."

"Go fuck yourself," he manages through clenched teeth, hand reaching for the wall to steady himself.

Jensen hums that fucking _hum_ that makes Jared want to clamp a hand over his mouth so he stops doing it. "Big talk for someone who passed out on me not six hours ago."

Jared stands up slowly, breathing heavily, and much as he doesn't want to give Jensen the satisfaction he really needs to lie down soon or he'll be right back on his way to the infirmary in no time.

Six hours is longer than he thought, but then the level of destruction just outside his cell probably takes some time to create. He glances at his bunk, despair rising quickly. Was it always that far away from the floor?

Jensen follows his line of sight, then looks back at him. "Good luck with that."

He hadn't expected Jensen to be helpful, in any way, but it still stings. A cursory look tells him Jensen is fine, doesn't have a scratch on him, which is also in line with expectations. "Were you here the whole time?"

"Here and there," Jensen shrugs, inspecting his fingernails. 

A shimmer of memory comes to mind when he remembers the dried blood on Jared's fingers. "You killed someone."

Jensen looks up sharply, warning more than evident in his eyes. "And saved your fucking ass. I can change my mind about wanting you breathing."

Death threats flow like water in this place, but he doesn't think he can ever get used to the casualness with which Jensen throws them about. "I need to lie down."

"That's what I said."

Jared sighs, bites through the stubborn part of him that would rather sleep on the floor than have this conversation. "I can't get into my bunk."

"You probably can't."

"For fuck's sake, what the-"

"Ask," Jensen cuts in, watching him closely.

Sleeping on the floor seems a lot more appealing right now. Concrete isn't as bad as it looks, he thinks he read somewhere that solid surfaces are good for your back.

"You're pathetic," Jensen says. "What's all this pride based on? I picked you up off the floor while you were crying, having some sort of flashback about dear Alex."

Alex.

"What time is it?"

Jensen doesn't seem fazed by the question. "Nearly one in the morning."

He can feel himself slip, as if reality is sliding from him one way and he's falling the other way. Linear thoughts make way for guilt that suffocates him, weighs down on him like a heavy blanket of cold steel. He sags against the wall, slides down until he's sitting on the floor. His mind plays him a little film of Alex; the first time Jared met him, the times they met up, when they planned the robbery, and then finally, the last time Jared saw him.

"If you're gonna have another breakdown can you please be quiet about it? It's been a long day."

"He's gone," Jared says hoarsely, shaking his head.

"Yes. He is. Well done, Sherlock."

"Would they still have gone through with it despite all this?" He waves a hand toward the bars and the cell block beyond them.

"Of course they would. Death row and the execution room are isolated for this reason. Among others."

"Shit."

Jensen sighs, rolls over on his side so he can get a better look at Jared. "I think they'll maybe let you go to his funeral. If no one comes to claim the body."

Jared looks up at that. It hadn't occurred to him. He hadn't given it any more thought beyond 'Alex is going to die' and 'it's my fault'. "You think so?"

"I said maybe."

Maybe is good enough for him. "Who do I ask?"

"Right now? No one. No one in this place will give a shit right now."

Tomorrow it is then. Alex gone. Misha...

He chews his lip, eyes Jared. "D'you know where Misha is?"

"What is with the 21 questions?"

"You were here."

Jensen rolls his eyes and shifts until he's on his back. "I don't know. Saw him get taken to the infirmary. Didn't look too good."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, it didn't look good. There was a lot of blood."

He looks at Rich again, and another chill rushes down his spine.

"Didn't you see him in the infirmary?"

Jared shakes his head, tries to go over it in his mind, but he hadn't particularly paid much attention to who was there. Misha definitely wasn't in the area Jared woke up in, but maybe on the other side of those glass doors...

"I'm sure he's fine," Jensen offers, almost awkwardly, as if the words taste foreign in his mouth. 

"Like you care."

"I do, actually." Jensen sits up slowly, leans back against the wall behind him. "You probably won't believe it, but he and I used to get on quite well."

"You and Misha?" Great, in addition to being a murdering psychopath, Jensen has also turned delusional now.

"Yeah, me and Misha," Jensen repeats matter of factly. Jared takes note of this being the first time Jensen has said Misha's first name.

"You're right, I don't believe you."

Jensen shrugs, seems completely unbothered at Jared's response. "Your buddy, Speight, though. Guy needs to get his attitude in check."

"Shut up."

"Why? To protect your sensitive ears? Fuck you, you should know the kind of crowd you associate with."

"You have no room to talk, you killed someone not six hours ago."

"Someone who was coming at me," Jensen says slowly, as if Jared is too stupid to comprehend. "It was kill or be killed, tell me Jared, which one would you pick?"

The day has been far too long for him to be in the mood to entertain Jensen's warped thought processes. Alex is dead. Misha is... something. Rich looks a mess and Jensen killed someone. In addition to that, as if it wasn't enough yet, breathing hurts like a bitch so he's doing his best to breathe shallowly, and getting quite lightheaded with it. 

"Alright, enough with the angst." Jensen gets up quickly. "We will never speak of this again."

"Speak of what again?"

Jensen points at his bunk, face grim. "Get in and shut your mouth. One time offer. Don't make me change my mind."

It feels like giving in, but then so much feels like giving in at the moment and he's too tired to argue. He shifts over until he's sitting on the edge of Jensen's bunk, looking up at him in confusion. Of everyone he's met in prison, Jensen is hands down the most difficult to figure out.

Jensen gives him a nod and lifts himself up on Jared's bunk without any difficulty, flashing a wide strip of smooth skin where his shirt rides up. He moves around for a while before settling down, but Jared is still sitting upright, wondering what the fuck.

"Oh, also, Welling? The kitchen guy who never shuts up about his fucking dog?"

"Tom?"

"Tom's dead."

He closes his eyes. He doesn't even want to ask. Doesn't want to know. Tom's dead. Alex is dead. Who's next? Tom's dead and now he'll never get to go home to his girlfriend and play with his dog and just get out and live a normal life. It's not fucking fair.

And fuck Jensen for being an unsympathetic son of a bitch. If he had the energy for it, he'd pull Jensen out of his bunk and punch the smugness off his face. Unfortunately, sitting up is proving to be too challenging. He moves around, lies down slowly, careful not to pull on the stitches holding his skin together. The pillow smells of Jensen, soap, something else he can't place.

The cell block is still buzzing, charged up like an electrical appliance that's been left on for too long. At some point, surely everyone's energy should deplete and they should pass out and be quiet. Maybe if he could make out what is being shouted it would provide a source of distraction. Right now, it's making panic bubble in his veins, implications and consequences and reality too dark, too _here_. It needs to shut off and he needs to pass out for that to happen.

Whatever painkillers the nurse gave him do fuck all to ease the pain, it's a constant throbbing thing inside him that won't leave him alone. Too much. Spread too thin. Something's gotta give. If only he would've been allowed to stay in the infirmary overnight. Get his feet back under him before having to face this, Jensen, and dead people.

"Yeah, I don't think we'll be getting much sleep any time soon," Jensen says, exhaling loudly. "The fuck is wrong with these people? They rage like fucking wild animals for hours on end and now they're still going? It's like a bunch of twelve year olds who've just discovered the joys of masturbating."

Jared doesn't respond, tries to find a position that's comfortable, though the closest he is going to get to comfortable is doesn't make him want to cry. 

"You best get comfy. I don't think we're gonna see the outside of this cell for a long while."

Lockdown. Of course. If one murder results in lock down he doesn't want to think about what multiple murders and an all out riot would result in. The space around him feels a bit smaller right away, walls creeping towards him, trying to squish him. 

"That's enough!" Someone shouts. "Everybody shut up or you'll never set foot outside your cells again."

The guard's call is met with catcalls and whistling. It's making Jared's head throb. He cranes his neck until he can see into the cell across from him. Rich still hasn't moved. Jared doesn't think he's even looked up once. Nothing he can do about that either, though he has no illusions about Rich wanting Jared's or anyone else's company. No one but Misha will do.

A buzzer sounds, and immediately after everything is covered in darkness. The noise around them lulls for a moment before picking up again, albeit at a lower level. Finally. He welcomes the darkness, it feels almost like a wall to hide behind and he can finally let go of the whisper thin leash he's had on his emotions since waking up in the infirmary.  
His shoulders shake but he doesn't cry. He shivers but he's not cold. 

"You better not be crying into my pillow," Jensen says, quietly enough that it's nearly a whisper.

"Can you please shut up for five minutes?" He's well aware of how often he has repeated that plea over the last few weeks. Jensen must be hard of hearing.

"Promise me you won't cry into my fucking pillow."

"Since when do you put any value in promises?" He hisses, trying to keep his voice down. "Don't trust anyone, Jared. I hate everyone, Jared. I'm all alone in a hard world where everyone is out to get me, Jared."

Jensen is quiet for a moment, but then Jared swears he can hear him chuckle. "You need to work on your impressions, man. That was terrible."

"Sleep. Please."

"Yeah, whatever."

*

It's not easy to fall asleep with voices around him and everything in his head, but he finally dozes off. It's that light kind of sleep he used to get when he'd had too much to drink; as if the events just before he fell asleep stretch into his dreams. The exhausting kind of sleep. The kind that makes you wake up in the morning feeling as if you haven't been asleep at all, just been busy all night.

He's in the middle of sleep like that when something tugs at his arm. There's a low, whimpering sound near him, coming from somewhere...

He opens his eyes and quickly realizes the sound is coming from him. His eyes find Jensen's in the dark, right next to him, hand on his arm squeezing.

"What do you want?" He slurs, not convinced this isn't another too-real dream. His eyes are slow to adjust to the dark, settling on Jensen's shadowed face, the faint lights from the corridor glinting off his bare shoulders.

"You alright?"

"Sleeping. Why'd you wake me?" The ache in his stomach is a dull throbbing; there, sore, but not the sharp sting from before. Maybe the painkillers are doing something for him after all.

"You got a fever?" Jensen puts a cold hand on Jared's forehead, frown creasing his brow.

"No. Get off. Wanna sleep."

"How's your stomach?"

"Fine." _Why do you care?_ "What's going on?"

"You were making noises."

"Sorry." 

Jensen opens his mouth, looks confused for a moment, and Jared thinks he sees a glimmer of something he hasn't seen on Jensen's face before. It's probably too dark though, shadows playing tricks on him. 

"Can I sleep now? I don't have a concussion. Promise."

Jensen raises both hands and shifts backwards. He mutters something under his breath, but Jared is not interested. Sleep is what he needs. 

He wakes up a few times during the night, short as it is, and he's fairly sure Jensen spends the night on the floor against the wall, watching him. Under normal circumstances, that would creep the bejeesus out of him. Right now, it almost makes him feel safe. Watched over by a murderer; how the mighty have fallen.  
Noise around him mixes reality with dreams, and when he next opens his eyes it's light. Inmates are talking, mostly a low rumble of voices. Everybody still locked up tight in their cell. Claustrophobia descends quickly, making him jerk upright. The pain is a swift memory of yesterday's happenings, and he nearly bites through his lip trying to hold in the scream. 

"Rise and shine."

Jensen is back in his bunk, if he was ever on the floor in the first place and that wasn't some weird hallucination. No kitchen today. No nothing at all from the looks of it. His eyes immediately drift to Rich's cell. Rich is sitting on the floor against the wall, staring a hole into the bunks, as if he can will Misha to appear on the bunk if he tries hard enough. No sign of Misha. 

The voices at the other end of the cell block grow louder, and he can hear guards as well. 

"What's going on?"

Jensen slides off the top bunk, landing on the floor with a heavy thud. "Breakfast. Seeing as we're not allowed out, they're bringing it to us."

"Who's cooking it?"

Jensen gives him a funny look. "Not you."

No shit. Jensen disappears behind him to their toilet while Jared waits for breakfast to arrive. He slides a hand under his shirt and feels the bandage lightly. The skin surrounding it is a bit warmer than the rest of him but not quite burning up. Nothing to worry about just yet.

"How long can they keep us in for?"

"Long as they please," Jensen says, voice raised over the flush of the toilet. "Or until they can't stand the smell anymore."

As soon as Jensen mentions it, it's as if some switch clicks on in his mind and now he wants to shower. Desperately. Wash the sweat and quite possibly blood off his skin, smell of cheap ass shower gel instead of this. 

"Ackles, 05A176, Padalecki, 10P270. Present." A guard appears at their door. He's holding a tray with two plastic containers on it. Another guard ticks boxes on a clipboard. Come hell or high water, must have everyone accounted for. Jensen gets the tray, throws a big smile in, then dumps the entire thing on the bottom bunk next to Jared.

It doesn't smell very nice, but then, what does. Jared's got a funny feeling he should be lucky they get fed at all. Two guards that don't belong in C Wing serving them breakfast suggest that something happened to at least some of the guards, and he's seen enough TV to know that this is a Bad Thing for all inmates.

Jared's distracted by the guards getting to the cell across from them. 

"Speight! Take the fucking tray."

Rich doesn't move, doesn't even seem to hear them. The guard slams his night stick against the bars of the cell but still no response.

"Suit your fucking self." He drops the tray in front of the cell, the lid of the lone container falling off as porridge spills onto the concrete.

The guards keep moving and Rich stays perfectly still. Jared doesn't notice Jensen opening one of the containers until the smell of porridge fills their cell. When he looks over, Jensen sticks a plastic spoon in the container, watching it closely as it stands straight up. He smiles, hands it to Jared.

"The special today is concrete."

Jared makes a face but takes the container. Not eating because the food is shit is not a habit he can afford to get into. Jensen takes the other one for himself and sits on the floor, watching the cell block quietly. It's a bit confusing that he hasn't demanded his bunk back yet, but Jared will take it.

"Did you see what happened?" He asks Jensen, knowing Jensen doesn't need him to specify what he's talking about.

Jensen shakes his head, watches porridge drip down from his spoon in thick globs. "Saw Speight yell out for a guard, they finally took Collins away and Speight nearly ended up in my old home because he would not stay put."

"They didn't allow him to go to the infirmary?" Not that Jared really thought they would. Maybe. They let Misha stay with him that one time.

Jensen snorts. "You keep forgetting this ain't the real world, Jared. Which means that," he gestures vaguely at the cell, "is not a real relationship and it doesn't hold up for the system."

"I dunno. Looks more real than any relationship I've had outside."

"That's a little bit sad."

He shrugs, blows on his lukewarm porridge out of habit. He's never making fun of anyone's cooking skills again. "It's true."

"Your girl cheat on you?"

Not as far as he's aware. "Nah. She just..." he frowns. "Fuck that, she kinda did. With drugs. Depleted me of coke in the span of weeks and got me into a shit ton of trouble."  
Jensen glances around the cell then back at Jared. "I can tell."

"I needed money to pay off some dealers and thought this was the easiest way."

Jensen puts his spoon down and pulls his knees up to his chest as if he's a three year old getting ready for story time. "Bet that makes you feel real stupid."

He'd argue, but Jensen is not wrong. "What about you then?"

Jensen's lips curl up. "What about me what?"

"Girlfriend?" 

Jensen purses his lips as if he's considering the question. "Not for a long time."

"Boyfriend?" As he says it, he half wants to take it back, blame it on the painkillers, but in a way he doesn't really care anymore. He must have left his self preservation in the infirmary along with the blood he lost.

Jensen barely responds. His fingers flex slightly, but Jared's noticed he does that a lot anyway. "Boyfriend." 

It's an answer, an affirmation, when he was expecting anything but. He mentally celebrates a small victory before debating if he can push on.

"Does he ever come visit you?"

"Yes. When I haven't had enough sleep."

Jared raises his eyebrows. "That... what?"

"He's dead." Jensen's voice is the same as always, tone normal as ever. Nothing to indicate what he just said has any personal bearing on him. And yet.

"I'm sorry."

"How very kind of you."

"Did he die before you came here?"

"You ask a lot of questions." 

Anyone else would probably step back and leave Jensen alone, but Jared's been on the receiving end of these conversations enough that he can tell the warning doesn't quite have the same bite to it as usual. "You make me think of a lot of questions."

"That's me," Jensen nods. "Inspiring curiosity all over this goddamn shithole."

Bitterness is not something he's used to hearing from Jensen. It's a startling departure from his default amusement or sarcasm. "How long've you been here?"

"Long enough to know better than to entertain your interrogation."

"Then why do you?"

"Cause I'm bored."

"Of what?"

Jensen shrugs, rubs a hand over his cheek. "Everything. I've seen it all. The fear. The hate. Blood, guts, violence. Every cocky sonofabitch that walks through those gates. Every jumpy little fucker that will be used up by this place until he finally can't take it anymore and hangs himself."

"Which one am I?"

"Cocky sonofabitch." Jensen licks his lips slowly, considering his own words. "But you've sorta... lost it a little. The hole wore you down, then Loureau. PTSD is not a pretty thing to have, 'specially not in here."

"What, you're a shrink too, now?" 

"Like I said, seen it all."

Jared flicks his spoon back into the container. "So now I'm a bitch?"

"Didn't say that."

"It's one or the other apparently."

"Didn't know you had a bit of borderline going on as well."

He doesn't know what that means, and Jensen can shut up now. 

"You're the gray of Angola, Jared. Congratulations. Another misfit, done hard, yaddayadda, hard time, sob, end of story. If you're gonna hang yourself, please use your own sheets."

"You can be a real asshole, y'know?"

"So I've been told."

Jared puts both containers back on the tray, and pushes it to the end of the mattress. "So which one are you?"

"Different shade of gray to you."

And with that, Jensen decides the conversation is over.

Jared lies back down, figures there's not much else to do, and as long as Jensen doesn't reclaim his bunk, he isn't moving. The guards return to pick up the trays, but other than that, time drags more than usual. No distractions, nothing but four walls, a bunk and a hundred cons talking shit. Jensen stays on the top bunk, and they don't get lunch. The fact that the most exciting thing about the day is not getting lunch is depressing. He keeps an eye on Rich, but nothing happens on that front either. He's half-wondering if Rich is dead, and everyone is just too busy to notice.

Another count, though it's not nearly as entertaining when they're not lined up like livestock waiting to get stamped. Still here. Where the fuck else would they be? Run away when all doors are locked? Guards are fucking stupid. It's starting to get late when a guard stops at their bars.

"Padalecki."

He sits up, slight wince when his muscles tense and stretch painfully. "Yeah?"

"Painkillers. Nurse's orders."

He goes through the same routine of swallow and prove that he did so, before the guard is back on his way. 

"Those pills helping any?"

"Doesn't hurt as much as yesterday."

"Thought you were gonna bleed out on me," Jensen mumbles, putting the book he's reading down on his stomach to give Jared his full attention for a moment.

"Didn't."

"I noticed."

Another hour or so goes by until dinner arrives. Jensen gets the tray from the guard, and sets it down on the mattress. He eats on the floor and Jared doesn't offer the bed. Rich is still not eating and Jared regretfully pokes at his pasta. If he could just do something, or ask someone. Be useful in any way at all. He's lost count of how many times Misha and Rich looked out for him when they really didn't have to. 

"Should eat."

"Why do you care?" It comes out a bit harsher than he intended. Even so, he has spent the last few hours wondering what's up with Jensen, and why he suddenly seems to give a fuck about whether Jared lives or dies.

"Who says I do?"

"You watched me sleep."

"I couldn't sleep. Was watching everyone sleep."

"Because that's not disturbing at all."

"Lil jumpy there, are we? Walls gettin' to ya?"

Not the first time he's noticed Jensen starts drawling his words when he's speaking more quickly, shifting attention away from where he doesn't want it. "You stayed with me when I was stabbed."

"You fell down right in front of me. I was just getting you out of the way."

"You offered me your bunk."

"You would've fallen flat on your face and knocked yourself out. Guards would have come, probably would've thought it was my fault somehow and I get in trouble."

"You kissed me."

That stops Jensen in his tracks, spoonful of pasta suspended in the air. He recovers quickly, takes the bite. "So?"

"So? So why?"

"Does it matter?"

Jensen Ackles; talking circles around him since Jared landed his ass in this cell. "You've got an answers to everything, but you dodge the tricky questions, huh?"

"You think so?"

"It's clear, isn't it?"

Jensen leans back, observes him quietly, pasta forgotten on the floor next to him. "It's not a tricky question."

"Then answer it."

"Would that make you feel better?"

Depends on the answer now, doesn't it?

"Fine," Jensen says. "I kissed you cause I wanted to."

"Why?"

"You're like a three year old toddler that never shuts up."

"Sound familiar?"

"You are frustrating," Jensen sighs. "You got this determination that you probably don't even realize you've got, because all it seems to do is get you into trouble. You're too curious for a place like this. You play to be a tough guy, but you cry over the execution of someone you did not even consider a friend. You have a conscience and feel guilty, but you were a dealer on the outside who didn't much care how your actions affected other people." Jensen takes a breath before continuing. "You're too eager to put loyalty in people when you know shit about them, you're afraid, and scared, and cornered, yet you were more than happy to pick at me until I snapped so I. Snapped."

Jared's eyes have widened by the end of Jensen's speech. That's... shit, sounds as if Jensen has given it a lot of thought. "You've got an interesting way of snapping."

"You've got an interesting way of staying alive in here," Jensen counters. "Make a deal with me without having terms, even though everybody you ever talked to in this place warned you about me. You owe me, when everything you've ever known about prison tells you that's the worst position to be in."

"I had to see Alex."

"You had to suffer," Jensen's fingers clench and unclench on his thighs. "You need to make yourself suffer. Let me tell you something, it doesn't matter how much you suffer, or hurt, or how the guilt eats you up inside, because it ain't ever going away. You won't let it."

"That's not true."

"You trying to be a martyr isn't going to save anyone, Jared. Alex is dead. That girl is dead. Ain't nobody else. Just you."

"Sounds like you speak from experience," Jared bites out, uncomfortable at having the truth rubbed into his face.

"Well done, Jared, you win at addition. One and one is two. I'm in prison and you know I've been here for a while and I'm not going anywhere. Think that is possible without having a thing or two to feel guilty about?"

"Didn't think it mattered to you."

Jensen narrows his eyes. "It matters to me as much as it matters to you. I'm just not stupid enough to show it."

"So what did you do?"

"None of your fucking business."

Jared pushes his container aside, reaches for the glass of water Jensen put on the floor hours ago. "Happy to dish it out, as long as it's not about you, huh?"

"You like having a mystery to solve."

"Whatever. Keep not answering. You're good at it."

"Thank you."

Jared lies back down and settles for ignoring Jensen. He's bored of the conversation, tired of being trapped. Rich has curled up on Misha's bunk, but Jared highly doubts he's sleeping.

He brushes his teeth, relieves himself. Washes himself by the sink as best he can. Goes through the motions like every other day of his life only now it's become an event; a reason to get up for, something to do like a hobby. He's glad when the buzzer rings and the lights go off. One less day on his ticket. One day closer to freedom. Now all he needs to do is shut off his mind so he can fall asleep and forget about the world for a little while. It will still be there when he wakes up, no matter how hard he wishes for something else.

*

He was right; when he opens his eyes, the world is still there. Angola is still there, sadly enough. What wakes him up is different. A guard at the bars, talking to him. He takes a second to catch up with reality before it makes any sense.

"Move your ass, Padalecki. People gotta eat."

Wait. He's being let out? He can go to work? He can shower? He sits up too quickly, hisses when the pain catches him and the world hides in black for a few moments.

"I said move."

He gets up, grabs his towel and leaves his cell. Rich is standing outside, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Shower, please. You guys stink."

Rich doesn't look at him, heads for the showers, Jared trailing behind him. There are so many things he wants to ask, but part of him is afraid of the answers. He undresses methodically, and picks a shower head across from Rich. Rich washes himself quickly, and Jared notices how pale he looks. 

When they're on their way to the kitchen, Jared finally decides to speak up.

"Rich?"

No response.

"How're you doing?"

Stupid question and he knows it, but it's all he's got to offer. Rich takes his place at the grill, starts putting sausages on, shoulders tense, every move he makes jerky, like he's made of glass and may shatter at any moment.

Jared respects the silence, much as he doesn't want to, and gets to work as well. The rest of the staff work around them just as quietly. Tom's absence is noticeable in a way his presence never was. All of them look drawn and troubled, Jared is sure he's no exception.

He serves breakfast to a crowd of sleepy inmates, all of them relieved to be out of their cells, able to breathe fresh air. Rich at his side, lacking in his usual banter, but fortunately everyone is too preoccupied with being released to take notice.

It's after breakfast, when he's seen Rich not take one bite of his cereal and yogurt, that he decides to make Rich talk. Draw him out no matter how, see what happens and just get him to talk again.

"Hey. Talk to me." He sits down across from Rich at one of the small tables in the back of the kitchen. "What happened?

He's surprised when he gets a response.

"I don't know." Rich's voice sounds hoarse, as if he hasn't talked in days.

"Have you heard anything about Misha?"

Rich looks up, eyes missing the usual glint, the humor, all of it replaced by a shadow of a man who seems to carry the burden of the whole prison on his shoulders.

"No. No one will tell me anything."

"Have you asked?" Because really, he doesn't think Rich even moved in the last thirty-six hours.

"Not a word. He could be dead for all I know."

This is the part where he's supposed to say something comforting, like, it'll all be fine, I'm sure he'll be back soon, don't worry, but he can't lie. Misha could be dead, and they wouldn't find out until the guards decided they could know.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Rich sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, gazes across the kitchen as if he's looking for something. "Not yet. Maybe they'll tell me something today."

"And if not?"

"If not, I'm gonna ask Ackles to find out."

Jared's eyes widen in shock, and at first he's not sure if he heard it right. "You're gonna ask Jensen for a favor?"

"He'll be able to find out and I need to know," Rich shrugs.

"What happened to 'don't make deals with the devil', and don't be in his debt?"

Rich gives a shake of his head. "It doesn't matter anymore. I need to know." 

And it shows. Rich keeps to himself for the rest of the day, does his job like usual, but the kitchen is too quiet without his usual jokes and remarks. It's too quiet without Misha mumbling under his breath, smiling at Rich's antics, and it's too quiet without Tom telling everyone who will stop long enough about his damn dog. After lunch, one of the guards finds them in the back of the kitchen, busy preparing dinner.

"Alright, listen up. You guys are understaffed at the moment, so I need to add two people to get you back up to speed."

Rich drops the knife he was using to chop and spins around, anger hot behind his eyes. "No."

"I'm sorry, Speight, I didn't mean to suggest it was optional."

"You can't. We're fine. We don't need any help."

The guard looks around at all the food still waiting to be processed for the night's dinner before looking back at Rich. 

"Sir, we're just a bit slow to get back into things," Jared offers. "We'll be fine tomorrow."

"You're four hands short."

"Misha will be back soon enough," Rich says quietly, watching the guard for a response, but he gets nothing.

"Do you know how he's doing?" Jared asks, taking a small step forward.

"Who?"

"Misha Collins?"

The guard thinks for a moment then shakes his head. "Not a clue, sorry. The number of cons sent down to infirmary in the last 48 hours is kind of insane."

"Can you find out?" Jared pushes.

"No, Padalecki, I can't. I've got shit to do. Now, this is a temporary trial, we'll see how it goes." He waves a hand and two people step forward from behind the counter.

One is tall, young, somewhat jumpy. Looks as if he'd rather run away than be in a kitchen surrounded by potential weapons and people not bothered about using them.

The other one is Jensen.

"Oh, fuck no," Rich growls, advancing quickly but Jared grabs his arm, holds him back. "He is not setting foot in my goddamn kitchen."

"It ain't your fucking kitchen." The guard folds his arms over his chest. "You play nice, or I'll have you mop toilets for the rest of your sentence."

Rich curses under his breath, and shakes Jared's hand off. He turns around, goes back to chopping with a bit more force than necessary. 

"Alright, Padalecki, you show Ackles the ropes, Murray, you got Rodriguez. I'll be watching you."

"Yes, Sir," Jared mumbles. He watches the guard leave, waits for Murray to gesture for Rodriguez to follow him. Then he looks at Jensen, who's busy frowning at his apron in confusion.

"Is this necessary?"

"Wouldn't wanna get your uniform dirty," Jared says, looking back at what he was doing. "Alright, you want a quick tour or just wanna get started?"

Jensen smiles toothily. "I think I know my way around this kitchen, thanks."

Of course. Using it as a murder scene will do that. "Good. There's trays of lasagna in the oven, keep an eye on them, turn them if you need to. Start setting up the counter for dinner, and that should be it."

Jensen tilts his head, looks him up and down, and Jared's so damn sure he's gonna be told to fuck off. He's wrong.

Jensen salutes and turns on his heels. "Aye boss."

As soon as he's gone Rich chucks his knife in the sink and bangs his fist on the counter. "I'm gonna fucking kill the sonofabitch."

"It ain't his fault."

"You think I don't fucking know that?" Rich takes two quick strides until he's in Jared's face. "I don't want that smug cocksucker in my goddamn personal space."

"It's only temporary."

"I don't. Fucking. Care!"

Jared leans back as far as he can, swallowing down the pain when the move pulls his stitches, and Rich's features relax slightly. 

"Sorry."

"'S alright." Only it's not. He's not used to Rich blowing his fuse like this, not to this extent. "You wanna go out? Have a cigarette? We can hold down the fort on our own for a bit."

Rich gives him an unsure look that Jared recognizes as the complete and utter inability to make simple decisions. He's been there. He's still there sometimes, when everything gets under his skin. Rich finally gives a short nod and walks off in the direction of the doors to the yard.

"Your friend's a bit uptight."

Jared rolls his eyes at Jensen. "Leave him alone."

"Oh, I will. Fingers crossed he returns the favor."

"Worried?"

Jensen snorts. "Yeah, nothing terrifies me more than a distraught loverboy."

"Just don't, alright? He's got enough on his plate."

"Yeah whatever." Jensen starts to turn around when Jared stops him.

"Hey, Jensen?"

"What?"

"Could you do me a favor?"

"I don't do favors."

Jared grits his teeth. "Add it to my outstanding debt."

Jensen narrows his eyes, leans against the counter, hip cocked, arms folded over his chest, looking slightly less threatening with a white apron tied around his waist. "This ought to be good."

"Can you find out about Misha for me?"

Jensen taps a finger against his lips. "What about him? I thought you two knew everything there was to know about the other."

"Can you find out how he's doing?"

"Why?"

"Because I want to know?"

Jensen hums, scratches the back of his head. "How?"

"I don't know? You've got ways, thought there was nothing you couldn't get your hands on in here. A bit of information on how an inmate is doing should barely flex your muscles."

"Is that right?" Jensen saunters over slowly, hips bouncing in time with his steps in a way that is more distracting than it should be. "There's only so much I'll do on credit, Jared. I'm gonna need some sort of... deposit."

"Name it."

Jensen licks his lips slowly as he considers Jared. "What is it about these two? You want what they got?"

"Can you please just find out?"

"You want what they got." Jensen stops in front of him, looks up at Jared, head tilted back slightly to meet his eyes. "Don't you see it's their weakness? You think it makes them strong, it's not. It's what breaks them down."

"Why do you need to know fucking everything? Why can't you just do this one thing for me?"

"In return for what?"

"It's not my fault that you can't make up your fucking mind about what you want!"

"Hey, there a problem over here?"

Jared exhales in frustration, turns away from Jensen.

"Not at all, Sir," Jensen says, smile evident in his voice. "Just having a friendly conversation with my cellie here."

"Yeah well, wrap it up, chow time in fifteen."

Jared leaves Jensen to it, finds Rich and they start setting up the counters for dinner. Inmates start trickling in, forming a line to get their shitty food in their shitty trays to eat at shitty tables. 

Halfway through, Jared's distracted by a tap on the shoulder. He turns around only to have cold fingers on his cheek push him back until he's facing straight ahead. "Jensen-"

"He's alive," Jensen says in his ear, quietly enough that it's unlikely anyone can hear him. "Hung by a thread for a few days, but he's slowly recovering. He spent a few nights at the hospital in the city, but he got back this morning and they think he'll be fine."

Jared doesn't get a chance to respond; Jensen's already gone. He looks over at Rich to see if he heard Jensen, but Rich is dishing out food without paying attention to anything but the spoon in his hand.

He waits until everyone is served and Rich has disappeared to the back. Two plates filled with burgers and peas balanced in his hands, he joins Rich at the table. Fortunately Jensen is nowhere in sight.

"Eat," he says, putting the tray in front of Rich.

"Not hungry."

"Tough. You gotta eat."

"Fuck off, Jared."

Oh shit. No Nemo? Yeah, this isn't good at all. "Misha's alive," he says, taking the seat across from Rich.

Jared's never seen anyone look up so quickly, eyes wide, half-disbelieving. "What?"

"Yeah. He's alive. Spent a couple of nights in the hospital in town, and was apparently not doing too well, but he's fine now."

"Jesus Christ," Rich breathes, hysterical laughter bubbling up. "How the fuck do you know?"

"Doesn't matter. But he's back. And he'll be back in the cell block soon enough, so you gotta keep it together, alright?"

Rich gives him a pensive look, x ray vision trying to work it out so Jared keeps his face carefully blank. He's not stupid, neither is Rich. Knows Rich knows. But he lets it go.

When Rich pulls the tray towards him and starts eating slowly, Jared mentally breathes a sigh of relief. He starts picking at his own food, tasteless as ever, but he's used to it by now. He doesn't know why Jensen found out for him, but he did, and he's well aware it's about time he started returning some favors.

Jensen hasn't killed him yet. Hasn't exactly put a scratch on him. Got him to safety during the riot. Let him see Alex, found out about Misha. It may not seem like a lot to normal people, but it means a fuck of a lot in here. He's startled out of his thoughts by Rich.

"So, what happened to you in the riot, Nemo? Sorry I ain't asked before."

Jared chews slowly. "Got stabbed. Not sure by who. Jensen..." he pauses when Rich's jaw clenches visibly. "Jensen pulled me into a cell, stayed with me till they took me to the infirmary."

"How lovely. Were you hurt bad?"

"Still breathing," Jared shrugs. "Got a few stitches. They would've kept me, but they're a little short on beds at the moment."

Rich looks as if he's bitten into a lemon, and Jared curses himself for not thinking before opening his mouth. Rich recovers quickly, though. "I'm sorry about Alex, man."

"Yeah." Jared runs a hand through his hair, tiptoes around the feelings that rush to the surface too quickly. "I'm thinking maybe... maybe they'll let me go to his funeral."

"Hadn't thought of that. That'd be good for you I think..."

Jared hums, eyes following Jensen as he walks across the kitchen to the counter to start cleaning up. "I dunno who to ask about it."

"Dugas's right there," Rich nods his head in the direction of the canteen. 

Jared turns around, follows his line of sight until he finds Dugas and another guard, standing in a corner to watch everyone eat. Before Jared can get up and approach him, Dugas spots him and starts making his way over.

"Mr Padalecki, Mr Speight," he nods at both of them, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Sorry to interrupt you while you're eating." He rubs the back of his neck, eyes darting around the kitchen. 

Jared is shocked to realize Dugas is nervous. "Sir?"

"Yeah. It's not... exactly... prison policy. But I'm willing to make you a deal."

Rich chokes on his next mouthful of food, and blindly grabs his glass of water. Jared watches his red face, tearful eyes from coughing, before refocusing on Dugas. "A deal?"

"You still have nightmares and stuff, right?"

Jared tenses, feet pressing outward against the legs of the table. "I'm fine."

"I have it on good authority that you're not, and you're hallucinating when you're stressed, having flashbacks."

"The fuck?" Rich says, "Goddamn it, Nemo."

Jared throws him a warning look, then looks up at Dugas. "So?"

"You go to therapy. Once a week. You promise me you'll do that, and I'll let you go to Mr Loureau's funeral."

Jared groans, shakes his head and drops his fork on the small pile of food in front of him. "And if I don't want therapy?"

Dugas's face hardens. "Then we'll be burying Mr Loureau alone tomorrow."

Of course. He hadn't thought any of Alex's family could be bothered with making the drive down here to bury him. There's still part of him that wonders if anyone would be driving down from Texas if he ever died.

"Once a week?"

"That's right."

"For how long?"

"Until the psychologist thinks you're ready to stop going."

"Fine." What does he have to lose anyway?

"Good, I'll pick you up tomorrow after breakfast is served." Dugas marches off quickly, not sparing either one of them another glance.

"What do you think that's all about?" Rich asks him.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Nemo, he offered you the one thing you wanted? This ain't Disneyland, that type of shit don't just happen in here."

"I got to go to therapy in return," Jared mumbles, getting up slowly to take their trays away. "Didn't exactly get just what I wanted."

Rich leans back in his seat, hands folded over his stomach. "Someone did."

That 'someone' being Jensen. He's given it a lot of thought, and there's no other explanation. No, that's not entirely right. A better explanation would be it's Misha or Rich, but Misha is not even in C-Wing, and Rich seemed shocked to hear about Jared's ongoing mental problems so that leaves Jensen. Plus, Jensen is the only one of them who could pull this off.

When he gets back to his cell that evening, he watches Jensen quietly as he goes about his business. Piss, wash hands, brush teeth, throw water on face, shave, take off shirt.

The thing he can't wrap his mind around, is why Jensen would a) do something nice for him, and b) want him to go to therapy. It's not as if Jared's about to snap, and Jensen is just looking out for his own safety by trying to keep him sane. Hell, he doubts that is even a thought process Jensen would entertain. 

"I gotta say," Jensen speaks up, looking at Jared over the top of his book, "working the kitchen's a bit claustrophobic."

"I'd have thought it beats supplying the hole and death row with food."

"You'd think so," Jensen nods, "but no, it doesn't."

Jared carefully climbs up to his own bunk, stitches pulling slightly, but not nearly as much as before. He lies on his back, waiting for the lights to go out so another day is just that bit closer to ending. Wishing his life away. But he can't sleep, thoughts twisting this way and that, trying to work out why Jensen would do this, what's in it for him. And what's it going to be like tomorrow, at Alex's funeral? It doesn't sit well with him that Alex's body will be buried so far from home, where he doesn't know anyone, and never made a friend. Once Jared eventually leaves this place, Alex will be on his own forever.

He rolls over on his side, looks out at the cell block to find most inmates have settled in to sleep. Rich no exception this time; he's stretched out on Misha's bunk, one arm dangling off the edge of the mattress, fast asleep. He smiles to himself.

"Jensen?"

"Hm?"

"Why did you do it?"

Silence. Jared holds his breath, waits for an answer.

"Night, Jared."

*

The next morning, Jared puts on dark blue sweats and a black t-shirt that Rich lends him. He shaves, combs his hair, even wipes off his trainers quickly. Jensen watches him from his bunk, amusement curling his lips.

Jared tries to eat breakfast, same as usual, but can't get one bite past the lump in his throat so he eventually gives up and sticks to coffee. When Dugas comes to get him, Rich pats him on the back, and Jensen catches his eye from across the kitchen.

He's not nervous, not doing anything he's not supposed to this time, but his shoulders still sag when he follows Dugas to the far end of the prison grounds. The sheer size of the complex makes him dizzy, makes him feel as if he's living in a giant bubble, and the real world outside the fences and barbed wire has ceased to exist. Isolated. 

The prison graveyard is in the far corner of the grounds, and when they get there, a priest and two inmates are waiting for them with a coffin. The hot Louisiana sun beats down on all of them, unforgivingly, but it's not just the heat that has sweat sliding down the side of Jared's face.

The priest says some things; Jared is not really listening, eyes fixed on the coffin in front of him. He wants to cry, but he can't. He wants to get angry, but he can't. There's nothing, he can't even feel the guilt right now, it's as if it's about someone else. Not really Alex in the coffin, and the irrational part of him wants to open the coffin and see that it was all a cruel joke. The priest asks him if he wants to say a few words, and he shakes his head. What is there to say? He can stand here, talk till he's blue in the face about what a great guy Alex was, but the truth is Jared never knew him before he got hooked on drugs, never knew him all that well even after that.

If he was ever a great guy, Jared didn't know him. He said everything he wanted to say that day on death row. Right now there's just silence as he tries to process what's going on.

When Dugas tells him it's time to go back, they're going to lower the coffin and there's no point in him being here for that, Jared's heart beats a little louder, feet glued to the floor. He doesn't want to leave Alex, can't leave him here all alone, in the ground, surrounded by strangers. He takes the two steps to the plain wooden box and hesitates. Part of him can't believe there's a body in there; the body of someone the state killed. He touches his fingers lightly to the rough wood, warmed by the sun.

"Come on, Padalecki."

_I'm sorry._

He doesn't look back on the way to C-Wing, walks as slowly as he thinks Dugas will allow him to get away with. Just before they get back to the block Dugas pulls him aside, into one of the narrower corridors that Jared thinks leads to the staff room. Dugas stands in front of him, jaw clenched tight.

"Look, Padalecki. I don't know what's going on with you and Ackles, but I just want you to know this is the first and last time I will let myself be manipulated by him, got it?"

Jared's eyes widen. "Sir? I don't know what he told you but I have no idea why he-"

"It's none of your business what he told me," Dugas whispers, anger heavy in his words. "It's done. He either stops his despicable ways, or I will have him put back in E-Wing."

"What... what am I supposed to do about him?" 

"You've clearly got some kinda pull over him, some weird... I don't know, connection. Just tell him stay out of trouble, or I'll make sure he's got a lot of it coming his way." Dugas pushes the door open and waits for Jared to slowly step into the block before letting it fall shut.

Jared stares at it for a few moments in confusion, unsure of what the fuck just happened. He finally turns around, and makes his way back to the kitchen, just in time to catch the pre-lunch rush.

Rich gives him a nod and hands him his apron without saying a word, and Jared is grateful. He doesn't see Jensen, but Rich is mumbling something about 'the psycho doing fuck knows what in the stock room'. It's just after lunch is served, that a slight hush falls over the canteen.

Jared and Rich have settled at one of the tables in the back with their trays, Murray and the new kid at the counter behind them, Ackles in the corner furthest away from them. Jared glances up to see what's going on now, and his eyes widen when he finds who's walking towards them, guard in tow.

"Rich," he hisses, nodding his head in their direction.

Rich frowns, but turns around to look. As soon as his eyes find Misha, his plastic cutlery falls to the floor and he's out of his seat.

Misha looks pale as a ghost, hoodie looking even bigger on him than usual, hair not tied back, standing up unruly. He has one arm in a sling, and a few healing cuts on his face, but he's _here_.

"Mish?" Rich stops a few feet short, as if he's afraid to come closer.

"Collins is back on kitchen duty, Rodriguez, that means you're out," the guard announces.

The new kind sulks, takes his tray and leaves, but Jared doesn't pay him any attention. 

Misha offers Rich a small smile, barely there, but it's enough to have Rich move forward and wrap his arms around Misha. 

Jared can't hear what he's saying from where he's sitting but he catches Misha's eye over Rich's shoulder, and the assuring wink Misha gives him. Something unclenches in his stomach, and he gives Misha a nod in return.

Misha squeezes Rich before letting go. Rich holds on a moment longer before lowering his arms, and taking a step back, looking him up and down.

"How you doing?"

Jared figures enough time has passed now, and it's his turn. He gets up and walks over to Misha, giving him a careful hug. Misha smiles at him, pats him on the shoulder.

"I'm just fine, guys. How're you?"

Rich narrows his eyes, pokes Misha's shoulder as if he's trying to make sure he's really there. Misha raises an eyebrow at him, and Rich stops.

"We're fine," he says, grin growing on his face. "Well, Nemo here got a lil scratch, but they stitched him up fine."

Misha looks at Jared. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, all good thanks. You had us worried, man."

"Nah, didn't think I'd die and leave you two to run this kitchen into the ground, huh?"

"Hey man, good to have you back," Murray says, raising his carton of juice to Misha. 

"Good to see you..." Misha's voice trails off when Jensen appears, standing next to a fridge.

Everybody stops talking at once, making time slow down as they all watch Jensen, and Jensen watches Misha. Jared is half-expecting Rich to say something, but it's Jensen who finally breaks the silence.

"See you're back."

Misha nods, arm brushing against Rich's. Rich looks about ready to throw a kitchen knife at Jensen to practice his dart skills.

"Good."

There's something in the air, something between the two of them that feels too familiar for two people who shouldn't know each other that well. This isn't just formality, fellow inmates acknowledging each other's presence. There's something else going on, and Jared can tell Rich feels it, too.

"Jensen's eh, working the kitchen now," Jared says awkwardly, unsure of what else to say to break the funny tension hanging heavily between them.

Jensen doesn't take his eyes off Misha, shows no sign of having heard anything at all. But Misha breaks the stare to glance at Jared. Then Rich. Then Murray. He swallows, and looks back at Jensen.

"Where's Tom?"

Rich coughs, puts a hand on Misha's shoulder. "He uh, he didn't..."

"He got killed during the riot," Jensen says. 

Misha holds his gaze a moment longer, before cursing under his breath.

"Gentlemen! Lunch ain't gonna clean itself up!"

Murray goes back to the counter to start cleaning up, Jensen sucks on his lip for a moment, before trailing behind him. Jared eyes Misha and Rich for a moment before leaving them. They probably have a lot to talk about that's none of his business.

Jensen is surprisingly quiet for the rest of the afternoon. Keeping to himself, when Jared expected him to cause some trouble. So Jared does the same, goes about his business, his mind still stuck on the weird scene in the back of the kitchen. It's coming up to dinner when Misha joins Jared in the stock room.

"Hey Jared, what's up?"

Jared looks up from his clipboard. "Nothing much."

"Rich told me you went to Alex's funeral today, that must've been tough."

"It was... I dunno."

Misha holds his cast, and sits down on the floor carefully. "Also heard you're a bit deeper in debt with Ackles than the last time I saw you."

"Rich has a big mouth," Jared mumbles, counting the cans of peas in front of him.

"Thank you for finding out how I was doing," Misha says quietly, tapping his fingers on his thigh. "You're gonna get yourself in trouble, though."

"Look," Jared says, putting his clipboard down next to him on the floor. "I dunno what the hell happened between you and Jensen-"

"Nothing happened."

"Then what was that weird silence about earlier?"

Misha shrugs. "We got history. We shared a therapy group, I told you."

"He looked out for me when I got stabbed. Let me sleep in his bunk. Got me to go to Alex's funeral."

"It's what he does, Jared." Misha sighs in frustration. "He gets under your skin, then he fucks you over."

"Speaking from experience?"

"Don't pick fights with me, man. I nearly died," Misha pouts, trying his best to keep in a smile.

Jared rolls his eyes, but finds that he can't really be annoyed at Misha.

"I eh..." Misha frowns, "I think maybe you should know a thing or two about Ackles. You obviously won't take my word for it so eh..."

"It's fine, Mish." He's so damn curious, but he doesn't want Misha to break a promise that clearly means a lot to him. "I know he's no sweetheart. I know he killed someone during the riot, I know he set that poor guy on fire."

"Yeah. He's got a real talent for murder. A creativity that's uncanny."

Jared wouldn't quite put it that way, but fine.

"He was a hitman."

"Wha-?" Jared's mouth hangs open, mind trying to process Misha's words.

"Yeah. On the outside. Settling debts and all that. Businessmen who didn't want to get their hands dirty."

"Jesus Christ." Misha had known what Jensen was in for this whole time?

"He knows more about how to kill someone and get away with it than anyone else in this place." Misha sucks on his bottom lip. "And that's... fuck man, that's just part of it. Not necessarily the worst of it."

"How many people did he kill?"

Misha winces. "Difficult to say. Like I said, he was very good at covering his own tracks, they could only prove the one, but I believe the unofficial estimate is upwards of twenty."

"Fucking hell."

"He'd mix it up, use different methods... handgun, strangulation, poisoning, suffocation, he set one of them on fire, pushed one in front of a train, carved out-"

"Alright," Jared interrupts, holding up a hand to stop the flow of words from Misha's mouth. "I don't think I want to know."

"Sorry."

"He told you this during group therapy?" That's the thing Jared can't wrap his head around. Jensen just doesn't seem the type to spill his guts in front of a group of strangers, especially confess to something he wasn't convicted of. 

Misha sighs, looks extremely uncomfortable all of a sudden. "We talked outside of therapy, before we were put in the group."

And the surprises just keep coming. "You... were you guys like... friends?" Jensen had hinted at it, but Jared didn't believe him.

Misha's lips pull down, fist of his good arm clenched tight. "I didn't have anybody when I came here, but I had a fuckload of anger. He was easy to talk to."

"Fuck me, you guys were friends," Jared gapes, unsure of which bit of newly revealed information he should be freaking out over first. 

"I guess we were."

"Jesus." Jared leans back against the rack behind him. "So what happened?"

"I got raped," Misha grinds out. "That kinda taints a guy's perspective on the world, y'know?"

"So you didn't wanna be his friend anymore?"

"I didn't want to be anyone's friend anymore."

Jared's surprised to feel a pang of sympathy for Jensen. He's not the one deserving of sympathy here. "Did he have anything to do with it?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"He's not a rapist."

"How do you know?"

"Just accept that I do."

Jared blinks slowly. "Okay."

"He's been in and out of prison since he was eleven years old, Jared. He knows the drill. He grew up in juvie. He's spent more time in prison than outside, and his mind's warped."

"So you're saying he doesn't know any better."

"That's not a reason to feel sorry for him, or let him fuck you over."

"You should've told me." Then why, _why_ is a small part of him relieved? It's not a sex offense, nothing to do with kids, he didn't beat up and torture a girlfriend. It was business. Funny how morals start slipping through his fingers more and more with every day spent in a place like this. 

"Maybe."

"Also, if he didn't tell you in therapy, you made no promise to keep your mouth shut."

"Technicality."

"That's the kinda thing that gets people off in court."

"Not you, not me. Certainly not Jensen."

 _Jensen_. Jared hums, glances at the door to make sure they're still alone. "So what, did he just get sloppy with this one murder?"

Misha snorts, shakes his head. "That would be tapping into information you really shouldn't hear from me."

Jared chews on his lip. "Do you think he's a bad person?"

Misha stays quiet for a long time, eyes fixed on a spot on the wall behind Jared. "I think... he's not had a lot of opportunities to be a good person."

*

"You're awfully quiet today," Jensen comments after they've been locked in their cell for the night. "Not happy to see your friend back on his feet?"

"Not as happy as you are," Jared mumbles, making a beeline for the sink.

"Now what does that mean?"

Jared doesn't respond, starts brushing his teeth so he has a valid excuse not to talk to Jensen.

"Aww, giving me the silent treatment?"

Jared spits in the sink. "Speaking of treatment, why did you want me to go to therapy?"

"What makes you think I want you to go?"

"You think I'm stupid?"

"Well..."

Jared turns around, points his toothbrush at Jensen. "I know you manipulated Dugas into letting me go. Why?"

"Giving me a lot of credit there." Jensen smiles, cocks his head.

"Therapy work for you? Hm? Found some peace in baring your soul?"

"Would it make a difference if I said yes?"

Jared shakes his head. He takes off his shirt and turns back to the mirror, peeling off the bandage to look at his stitches. When he glances up, he finds Jensen's eyes in the mirror, observing him quietly.

"What?"

Jensen doesn't respond, keeps watching him.

So Jared turns around, slowly, holding his breath as he does so, hand instinctively covering the stitches as if he's expecting a fight.

"What do you want?"

Jensen doesn't move a muscle, lets Jared advance until he's right in front of him, and Jensen has to tilt his head up slightly to keep eye contact.

Jared licks his lips. "What. Do. You. Want?"

As soon as the last word is spoken, Jensen's lips are on his, light, dry, warm air and soft skin. Everything that contrasts with this place, everything that has no place here, doesn't belong.

They're not touching anywhere other than their lips, and even that is barely-there contact. It burns Jared, from his lips all the way down to his toes, curls through him like electricity, and he has no illusions about how lethal it is. How much trouble he's asking for by not moving away when he should.

Truth is, much as he doesn't want to own up to it, he wants this. Craves it, human contact, but it's more than that because he wants it from Jensen. Wants Jensen to want it from him. 

Jensen moves his lips slowly, tip of his tongue darting out, teasing against Jared's lower lip. It sends sparks through him, makes him want to press his hips against Jensen's, and feel more of him. Get off, just like this.

It feels too good. Wakes up things deep inside him that he locked away as soon as he came here. They expose him, make him even more vulnerable than he knows he is right now, but he can't stop.

So he gets greedy. Hands thinking quicker than his mind can keep up with, reaching out before he has the chance to consider if that is such a good idea.

His hand comes up to Jensen's waist, fingers curling into the soft, worn fabric of his t-shirt. He doesn't push, doesn't pull, but Jensen instantly moves away from him. He takes a step back, eyes fixed on the floor, breathing just a little heavier than before. Jared wants to pull him back, taste his lips again, but he's not completely suicidal just yet.

"Jensen?"

Jensen looks up at him, eyes wide, lips parted slightly. He shakes his head, and Jared can see the walls being pulled back up, shutting him out until Jensen's expression has the same indifference it always has.

"Been a long day," Jensen says, voice deeper than usual, even though it's barely above a whisper. "Should get some sleep."

"Jensen."

Jensen shakes his head again, and sits down on his bunk carefully.

Jared watches, unsure of what to say or do. He finally sighs and looks out of the cell to find Misha and Rich watching him. Misha looks worried, brow pinched tight. Rich looks annoyed. Excellent.

Jensen stretches out on his bunk before curling up with his back turned to Jared. Jared is left wondering what is going on. This whole hot and cold thing Jensen is pulling is going to make him snap if it continues. Maybe it's not Jensen. Maybe it's something Jared is doing, some unconscious signal that tells Jensen he is perfectly ok playing this game.

Is he?

"Cut it out," Jensen mumbles into his pillow.

"What was that?"

"Go to bed."

Jared flexes his fingers, traces one fingertip over his stitches. He just made out with a hit man. Someone who got paid to kill people. Someone's who's spent the better part of his life in prison. It's disturbing how much it doesn't bother him. That's not what's on his mind, it's the fact that he can't work Jensen out at all.

He stays where he is until lights out a few minutes later. Hidden in the dark, he relaxes slightly, activities of the day catching up with him now that he can let his guard down a little. He needs to sleep, recharge. Do it all again tomorrow.

His own mattress feels nice under his tense muscles, cool sheets comforting against his warm skin. His ears strain to pick up the soft sound of Jensen's breathing below him. Tomorrow is his first therapy session. For the first time he's beginning to think he may have a problem or two that wouldn't hurt getting fixed.

Sleep is long and restless, but blissfully dream-free. It does little to make him feel rested when he wakes up the next morning. This time, Jensen is quick enough that they enter the shower area at the same time, and Jared has suddenly realized another problem with Jensen working in the kitchen. In addition to working in the same space, sleeping in the same space, they now also have to shower at the same time, in the same space. There is such a thing as too much of a good thing, and the jury's still out on whether there is anything good about this at all.

Rich and Misha must already be in the shower, because Jared can hear water running. Jensen ignores him completely, undresses quickly and Jared is just a step behind him when they walk to the shower. Rich and Misha are in their usual spots and Jared takes his across from them. Misha nods at him, but Rich glares at Jensen before facing the wall. Jensen doesn't even look at them, takes the shower furthest away from them, back turned to all of them.

Jared catches Misha's eye, the raised eyebrow, but he doesn't want to get into it. He washes his hair quickly, enjoys the lukewarm water on his head, waking him up in a way coffee doesn't anymore. He makes the mistake of glancing over at Jensen when he reaches for the shower gel. It's a distraction in its own right; Jensen's back, sunkissed with water running down it in thin rivers. He has to force himself to look away and focus on what he's doing, but the thought is in his head now, the thought of all that smooth skin and how badly he wants to run his fingers over it, trace those drops of water down.

Rich and Misha leave before Jared and Jensen are done, though Misha seems unwilling to leave them on their own. Jared shakes water out of his ears, leans his hands against the wall in front of him to let the water slide over his back. He turns his head sideways, and find Jensen is looking at him, though not _looking_ , eyes firmly fixed on Jared's face. Jared holds his breath, waits for Jensen to move, do something. Fuck it, he's ready. Tired of pretending nothing is going on here, when everyone around him has been more than happy to point out to him he's in over his head.

He is. Just not in the way they think.

Jensen runs a soapy hand down his flat stomach, and Jared swallows thickly. He can't be wrong about what's going on, not when Jensen's looking at him like that, as if he's waiting for Jared to make a move. Who's got the ball? Who's turn is it? Who's gonna man up and act on it? Jared pushes back from the wall, takes a hesitant step closer to Jensen. He has no fucking idea what he's doing or why, his feet move of their own accord and all he can do is follow, heart hammering against his ribs.

Jensen freezes, hand low on his stomach, watching him come closer. He wipes water off his face with his other hand, shifts from foot to foot, and it's so not Jensen, not what Jared is used to seeing from him. Confidence washed down the drain with the suds, uncertainty coloring every move he makes. It throws Jared off; he doesn't know what to do in this scenario, has no fucking clue anyway, but now that Jensen has stopped acting like Jensen, it's even more confusing.

So he stops, and he asks. Because he's a nice guy like that. "What do you want?"

Jensen licks his lips, but it holds nothing of the amusement the tiny gesture is usually paired with. "Does it matter?" His voice is surprisingly calm, crisp and chipped like ice cubes clinking together in a glass of diet coke on a hot day in downtown New Orleans. Just as cold. 

"Yes."

Jensen shakes hair out of his eyes, little drops of water flying everywhere. He closes the distance between them unexpectedly quick. Grabs the back of Jared's neck and pulls him closer until their noses bump together. Jensen's eyes search his, looking for something, droplets clinging to his eyelashes making them stand out darkly against his skin. If Jared knew what he was looking for, he'd gladly give it to Jensen, but he doesn't have a clue. Jensen's fingers curl against his skin painfully tight, grabbing a handful of hair, maybe holding on, maybe pulling him away.

He leans in closer, looks Jared square in the eyes and finally breaks the silence hanging heavy between them.

"I should've killed you that first night."

Jared recoils, tries to, but Jensen's hand in his hair keeps him in place. 

"That is the kinda man I am. I was going to kill you."

"Why?"

The corner of Jensen's mouth twitches. "Because I could. Because I had this itch under my skin that needed scratching. Because you were intruding on my space. Because you were so goddamn stupid and naive and broken up."

Jared's fists are clenched tight enough that it hurts, nails digging into the palms of his hands, no doubt leaving half moons. "So why didn't you?" The phrase 'playing with fire' has lost all meaning to him, but then he doesn't think that's something that only just happened. He probably started playing with fire as soon as his curiosity of Jensen outlasted his fear. Outlasted it, and then some.

Jensen shakes his head, and it's his turn to look so fucking broken, confused, as if his mind's played a trick on him, and he's only just worked it out. "I don't know."

"What do you want?"

"For you to stop asking me that."

"Why? Not used to taking the time to think about what you want, rather than what you think you need to do?" It's a long shot, or maybe it's some implicit part of his mind making a few educated guesses. He doesn't get the response he was expecting, which goes a long way to proving him right.

Instead of giving him a snappy remark, Jensen stares at him for a moment, then lets go as if he burned himself. Jared doesn't get a chance to stop him, barely has his mouth open to say something, but Jensen is already gone, leaving him in a steamy shower room. 

"Fuck!" He slams a hand against the wall, regretting it immediately when the impact shoots up his arm. "Sonofafuckingbitch."

"Padalecki! Today would be good."

He chews on the inside of his cheek, suddenly eager to punch some other things. Maybe less solid things than walls though. Resisting the urge, he returns to a now vacant changing room. He gets dressed quickly, then makes his way to the kitchen. Misha and Rich are grilling, Murray filling up the counter with cereal and fruit. Jensen is nowhere in sight.

*

"I think I underestimated you, Nemo," Rich says, not moving away from the grill. "Maybe you're one of the sharks after all."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," Misha interrupts. "Shut your mouth."

"Hey!" Rich protests, but a look from Misha is enough to silence him.

"Nothing happened."

"Man, how stupid do you think we are?" Rich snorts. "We leave you two butt-naked in a room together while you're making moon eyes at each other, and you want us to believe nothing happened?"

"Nothing," he swallows, image of Jensen's hand, fingers splayed on his stomach etched onto his retinas, "happened."

"Jared and Ackles sitting in a tree. K-i-"

"Rich, sausages." Misha points his spatula at the grill.

Rich rolls his eyes, but dutifully starts flipping the sausages over.

"So," Misha says, "therapy today, hm?"

"Yeah."

Misha nods. "You'll probably see Dr Franklin. She's nice. Firm, but nice."

"Think the word you're looking for is brutal," Rich mumbles, moving out of the way of Misha's kitchen towel just in time.

"She's not brutal," he assures Jared. "She's honest, straightforward, and doesn't have time for bullshit."

"Sounds fun," Jared comments dryly.

"I'm telling you, you'll be fine. Ignore Rich, he's never been to therapy."

"Don't have to, I've got you," Rich smiles, blinking sweetly.

"How wonderfully disgusting," Jared says, losing interest in the conversation when Jensen walks past. He disappears into the stockroom and appears a moment later with a large tub of instant coffee granules. He doesn't look up once, doesn't acknowledge their presence at all.

"Speaking of wonderfully disgusting." Rich gives him a big grin.

"Go to hell."

"That hurts, Nemo."

"Then go see a fucking therapist."

Rich's grin grows impossibly wider, and he nudges Misha. "What did I tell you? Our lil Nemo is all grown up."

"Watch the fucking sausages," Misha says, pushing Rich back towards the stove. "You guys doing alright?"

It takes Jared a second to work out Misha is asking about him and Jensen. Another moment to come up with a good enough answer. "We're fine. I think every day where we don't kill each other is a good one?"

"Aww Nemo, he would be the one killing you."

"Not helping," Misha comments, eyeing the sausages. 

They serve breakfast, and once every inmate has a tray of food in front of him, they retreat to the back of the kitchen with their own breakfast. The change in Rich is remarkable. In the space of twenty-four hours he's gone from walking around like a zombie to his normal, overexcited self. Jared suspects sex has something to do with it, though he doesn't question for one minute that Rich is mostly just happy to have Misha back.

"So, Nemo," Rich says with a mouthful of eggs, pointing a fork at him. "Did you find out who poked you in the stomach?"

Jared shrugs. "Don't remember."

"Yeah, but did you find out?"

"Just how would I do that?"

"Well," Rich continues, swallowing before taking another forkful of eggs. "Someone must've seen something."

"Did you?"

"Nah, I didn't join the party until much later."

"Some party," Misha mumbles, trying to scoop up some baked beans with the fork in his left hand. 

"Does it hurt?" Jared asks, eyes darting over the white gauze on Misha's arm. He kind of wants to write on it, be like being in school again. Just what the fuck would he say, though? Sorry some fucking con damn near broke your arm? Don't get it wet?

Misha shrugs, shakes his head. "Not the first time I got a little banged up." He frowns at the beans tumbling off his fork back onto his plate. "Probably won't be the last."

"Hey."

They all look up to find Jensen standing a few feet away from them, fists balled by his sides as if he's fully anticipating an argument. He's not wrong.

"What do you want?" Rich snarls, wincing a moment later when Misha clearly kicks him under the table.

"We're all out of juice. Can someone tell me where we keep it?"

Misha starts to get up, stops when Rich's hand on his good wrist pulls him back. 

Jared can see Misha's jaw clench from where he's sitting. Misha pulls his arm away a bit too roughly and stands up, eyes glowing with anger looking down at Rich. "I'll show you."

For a moment, Jared is convinced Rich is going to argue. And he can see where that would end; wouldn't put it past Misha to punch Rich in the face with his good hand. 

Fortunately for all of them, Rich leans back in his chair and refocuses on his plate in front of him. Misha walks off, past Jensen, who turns around and follows him to the other side of the kitchen. As soon as they're out of earshot Rich drops his fork on his plate.

"I fucking hate that psycho."

"Hadn't noticed," Jared snorts, "you hate him a little bit more than most people in here, though."

"Fuck off, Nemo. I don't need a heart to heart. Not from you."

"That much is obvious."

"He makes my skin crawl."

Jared doesn't know what to say. He doesn't really want to argue, or defend Jensen because to be fair, Rich has a point. But he also doesn't want to sit here and listen to Rich talk about Jensen. 

"He's gonna stab you in the back, Nemo. When you least expect it, he'll turn right around and laugh in your face as he sticks the knife in."

_I should've killed you that first night._

"You're such an optimist."

"I'm a realist," Rich says sharply. "This ain't no place for optimism. That's the kinda shit that gets you killed."

"You trust Misha."

"You are not, for one second, thinking about comparing Misha to Ackles, are you?"

Jared leans back, putting some needed space between them. "I'm just saying it happens."

"It's not the same. It's not even in the same book of same. It's... Misha's not a killer."

"I am," Jared says quietly, putting his spoon down. He's not hungry anymore.

Rich sighs. "No, you're not. If you were, you'd be sitting on death row now."

Something suddenly clicks in Jared's head. Something that doesn't make sense. "Why isn't Jensen?"

"Why isn't Jensen what?"

"Sitting on death row?"

"Who cares? Probably got himself one hell of a lawyer, or some kind of sob story to woo the jurors into giving him life instead."

"Yeah, because that is such an easy ride."

Rich narrows his eyes at him. "You think he deserves any less?"

"It doesn't matter, I wasn't on the jury."

"Well, thank fuck for that."

"No saints in here, man. Hell, Murray killed someone." Handy tidbit of information he learned the other day. It pays to listen every now and then.

"I don't care. Ackles has continued, hell, expanded upon, his killing spree since he got here. Who knows, maybe he's the one that stabbed you."

That stops Jared in his tracks. He freezes, eyes widening as he considers the possibility. Jensen was there. Near. And Jared has no recollection of what the fuck happened between walking into the cell block and bleeding in that cell with Jensen.

Rich watches his reaction then hangs his head in his hands. "Jesus Christ, Nemo. You're saying that's actually not unlikely? He was there, wasn't he?"

"Were a lot of people there." _Jensen kept him safe._

"Yeah, how many of them close enough to stab you?"

"Plenty." _Jensen was there._

"Who would have an interest in stabbing you? Who'd get anything out of it?"

_Invading on my personal space._

Jensen had blood on his clothes and his hands when Jared came to.

*

A guard comes to pick him up for therapy a while after breakfast. Since his brief conversation with Rich, Jared has made himself scarce, avoiding everyone, too caught up in his own head, thoughts revolving around that one thought; did he? Could he have?

It's probably the worst state of mind to be in during a first therapy session. He's convinced all it takes is someone blowing on him, and he will lose his temper, all the bottled up shit that is nearly drowning him, all the questions, everything will just come out all at once.

So he tries to distract himself as he waits outside the therapist's office. Tries to find something entertaining in the painting on the wall, but it's just a tree by a pond, and about the most depressing thing he's ever see. Why would people hang that outside a therapist's office? To solidify someone's already suicidal thoughts? To tempt inmates, show them what it is they're missing while they're trapped in this place with no way out and nowhere to go? Clever.

The therapist is nice enough, pleasant enough when she tells him 'a little bit about what she does'. He's not really paying attention, focuses on trying to look normal, so maybe he won't have to come back and waste his time. His time. How ironic.

"I hear you've been having nightmares?"

It takes more effort than it maybe should to act normal, downplay the nightmares, the hallucinations, the flashbacks and the crippling guilt that chips away at him every day. She doesn't need to know about that. What's she gonna do? Bring Alex and the girl back from the dead? Go back in time, and make him stay in college instead of start dealing? Present every person he's ever wronged in her office, so he can apologize to each of them personally?

She can't help him.

"How is your relationship with your cell mate?"

He does a double take, caught off guard by the question because he's fairly certain this is not how therapy is supposed to go. Not what it's supposed to be about. She should be asking him if his dad was a drinker, and if his mama wasn't there for him - yes, on both counts. She should be inquiring about him growing up with low self esteem, and telling him he was just dealing drugs as a way to deal with overwhelming emotions. He didn't know any better.

She's definitely not supposed to ask him about Jensen.

"It's fine."

It's destructive, suffocating, confusing, going to be the death of him, the only thing that keeps him going sometimes. It's making him question everything about himself and his surroundings, it's turning his world around yet again, but somehow two 180 degree turns don't bring him back to where he started off from.

"I know you had some... issues with your previous cellmate. And your current one, well, he's been known to be a bit difficult to live with."

Live? _Live?_ This ain't no life. Difficult? Unpredictable, seductive, downright fucking dangerous comes closer.

"Nah, we're alright. Keep out of each other's way."

"Are you afraid of him?"

He can't help but laugh at that. Afraid is such a one-dimensional word. It doesn't cover everything else it's mixed with. No one can feel only fear for anyone, can they?

"No."

She narrows her eyes slightly, as if she picks up something that was definitely not in that one syllable. "Are you attracted to him?"

Someone needs to send this doctor back to psych school. She clearly missed a few vital lessons, like don't piss off convicted criminals, and don't ask stupid questions. Don't paint the world black and white and forget there was ever anything called gray. 

"No."

_Liar._

She keeps talking for a while, but he's stopped paying attention again, still stuck on her previous question.

"It must have been difficult going to Alex Loureau's funeral."

That's not a question. And what's with her fascination with the word 'difficult'? "I've had better days."

That's it. Non-committal. Acknowledge that it fucking sucked, don't tell her how when his thought drift, they drift to Alex's body in the ground on the edge of the prison grounds.

"Okay, Jared. I think it will be good if you come see me once every week for a while."

He wants to ask her why. Wants to know what makes her think she can make a difference; the fucking arrogance. But he nods his head, and gets up when her glance at the door indicates that he can go.

The walk back to C-Wing is not nearly long enough for him to pull it together again. He feels exposed; even if he wasn't paying very much attention to what the therapist was saying, her questions still made him think about things he'd prefer not to linger on. Make him question the fabric of his day-to-day life, but most of all Jensen.

Did Jensen stab him?

It would be the perfect master manipulation. Injure Jared, take care of him, make Jared trust him. It's almost too well-executed, too well-thought out. If anyone is capable of it, Jensen is.

"Hey Nemo! Smoke?"

Fuck. Yes.

He follows Rich out the doors, the guard on duty barely sparing them a glance as they walk past. He lights up as soon as he steps outside, pack of Marlboros comforting and always in his pocket. It's the only thing he spends the money he makes working in the kitchen on. He doesn't need stamps, because there's no one to write. Doesn't need phone credit, because there is no one to call. It seems stupid spending money on food when he works in a kitchen, and can essentially have whatever he wants. He wants nothing the kitchen holds.

He doesn't want any of it, just the nicotine slipping into his bloodstream, comforting him with each deep inhale. Calming him down from the inside out.

"How'd it go?"

Jared leans back against the picnic table, squints against the bright sun high in the sky. "She asked things, I answered. She wants me to come back once a week for a while."

Rich nods, exhales slowly. "Might be useful?"

Jared watches the smoke drift away. Visible proof that he's still alive. "I doubt it. Whatever, it gets me out of the block for an hour or so."

"Mmm, also, I hear the doc's hot."

Jared snorts. "Yeah. Whatever."

"Not your type anymore, eh? You like 'em tall and manly now."

He doesn't dignify that with an answer. 

"Speaking of, your dearest cellie has Misha in a mood."

"What kind of mood?"

"The worst. The contemplative kind. Make it stop."

"How? He's your boyfriend."

Rich smiles brightly, but points a warning finger at him. "Language, Nemo. Call off your own boyfriend, and tell him to go pick on someone else."

"Got anyone in mind?"

Rich takes a step back, makes a point of looking Jared up and down slowly, one eyebrow raised.

"Fuck off, man," Jared huffs, stubbing his cigarette out under the sole of his shoe.

"You know you want it." Rich flings his cigarette in the general direction of an ashtray, and pulls the door open for Jared. 

"You don't know shit." Jared walks back inside. This is his favorite time of the day. If he had such a thing, and it could be applied to prison. It would be the time in between meals, a lull in the day, but not an unpleasant one for a change.

He finds Misha in the back of the kitchen, stirring sauce in an industrial saucepan. Misha looks up when Jared leans against the counter next to him.

"You alright?"

Jared hums, picks up the spoon lying next to him to stir the pasta boiling in the other pan. "Don't know how you can stand people poking at you like that."

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" Misha wiggles his eyebrows.

"Yeah, something like that." Jared looks into the pan, several pounds of pasta swirling around in boiling water. Oddly hypnotizing.

"It works better if you cooperate."

"Does she do your drug counseling?"

"Yeah."

"And the other group?"

Misha shrugs, shakes his head. "Nah, that was someone else."

"That man?" Jared remembers the doctor who did his psych evaluation when he first got here.

"No. Someone else. He doesn't work here anymore."

"He quit?"

"The general consensus is he was made to quit."

If there's one thing Jared's learned so far, it's that there are some questions he will never like the answers to, so it's better to keep his mouth shut.

"Rich says you're in a mood?"

"Rich needs to learn to mind his own fucking business." Misha puts his spoon down a bit harder than necessary.

"Hey, just saying," Jared raises a hand. 

"Shut up. Go play with your pasta."

Jared rolls his eyes, but shuts up as requested. He serves lunch with Jensen, which is an experience all on its own.

Jared has never seen a line of inmates so quiet and sedate. All of them, as soon as they join the back of the line and see who's standing, serving them next to Jared, they fall quiet as if someone's flicked a switch. They stand in line neatly, some of them even say thank you after getting a spoonful of runny pasta dumped on their tray. No one asks for more, no one comments on the quality of the food. It's the easiest meal Jared has dished out since starting in the kitchen.

Jensen is a poster boy for silence himself. He does what he's supposed to do on automatic; as if he's never done anything else since he got here. Once the line thins, Jared can hear him fucking hum to himself; that nameless tune that's becoming so damn familiar he sometimes swears he hears it in his sleep.

If their little shower incident this morning is on Jensen's mind at all, he's doing a damn good job of hiding it. It's not until the last inmate is served that Jensen turns to Jared and speaks.

"So, this what you guys do for fun around here?"

"Why? You were having such a great time delivering food?"

Jensen chews on his lower lip before answering. "Beats being trapped in here."

"So pick up smoking."

"'S bad for ya."

Jared snorts. "Yeah, who gives a fuck? What, you're worried you're lungs will give out on you before you get to leave this place and be normal again?"

"Nope," Jensen smiles. "Told ya, only way I'm getting out of here is in a coffin."

Jared doesn't miss a beat. "Might as well be in a coffin because of lung cancer."

Jensen tilts his head. "Better than dying cause you got shanked during a riot?"

Jared's breath gets stuck somewhere in his throat. His fingers clench around the metal counter until his knuckles turn white, and Jensen is just fucking standing there. "I didn't die," he finally squeezes out, but it sounds weak to his own ears.

"No, you didn't," Jensen agrees, "lucky you."

He doesn't feel particularly lucky. 

Jensen smiles at him serenely. "You alright to clean up? I got some things I need to do."

"Planning another murder?"

"That hurts, Jared. That you think so little of me."

"You have no idea." If only there was some truth to his words. He watches Jensen walk away slowly, the saunter back in his steps, but his shoulders are still tense, as if he's waiting for something to happen. Like the spring in a mouse trap on the verge of snapping shut. Jared really hopes it won't snap shut on him.

Jensen doesn't reappear until just before dinner, and Jared's curiosity is thick enough that he has to ask. That's a good four hours, what the fuck could possibly take so long? It can only mean one thing: Bad Things are about to happen. Again.

"Where've you been?"

Jensen ignores him, walks past without even so much as a glance in Jared's direction. Jared watches him, grits his teeth when Jensen is out of sight.

Fuck no.

He follows quickly, follows Jensen all the way into the stock room.

"Hey! I asked you something."

"I heard you." Jensen looks around, finally spotting what he came for; a tub of garlic paste.

"So?"

"So what?" Jensen turns around, tub in hand, expression annoyed.

"Where were you?"

Jensen slams the tub back down on the shelf, and takes one step until he's in Jared's face. "You. Need to fuck off and start minding your own goddamn business."

"Or what? You gonna stab me again?"

Jensen's reaction is delayed, as if it comes over him in slow motion. The corner of his mouth twitches, and his eyes widen. He opens his mouth, closes it again. Frowns. "What?"

"It was you, right?" Jared nods, now that he's saying it out loud it suddenly seems so fucking plausible, he feels like an idiot for not realizing sooner. "You stabbed me, and then you protected me. Get me to trust you when it was you all along."

Jensen sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, flash of white teeth sinking into the soft flesh, before he answers. "Did it work?"

"You fucking-" He's pulled back a fist before he has time to think about it, but Jensen is too quick for him. He ducks out of the way and Jared's fist connects with the wall instead. He screams in pain when the impact rattles up his arm, and he's sure he can feel his knuckles crack under the impact.

"Oh, you fucking idiot," Jensen mumbles, sagging against the wall.

Within seconds Misha and Rich join them in the stock room, Rich pinning Jensen to the wall while Misha pulls Jared upright.

"The fuck happened?" 

Jared clutches his hand to his chest, the throbbing nearly enough to make him faint. "Hit the wall."

Rich looks over his shoulder at them, hand on Jensen's chest. "You hit a wall? Why the fuck would you hit a wall?"

"I wasn't aiming for the fucking wall!"

"What the hell is going on in here?" Dugas shows up behind them, and immediately goes for Rich, pulling him off Jensen. "Jesus Christ, I can't leave you clowns alone for five minutes."

Rich looks as if he's ready to go for Jensen again, but Misha pulls him back, shoots him a warning glance. 

"I think I broke my hand," Jared breathes, trying to focus on staying upright.

Dugas looks at him, at his hand, and sighs. "Alright, everybody out. Collins, Speight, get back to work. Ackles, go work somewhere that's not near them."

Jensen smiles, looks at all three of them before wandering out the door.

"I'm gonna fucking kill that cocksucker," Rich snarls.

"Shut up, Speight. He turns up dead, I'll come knocking on your bars." Dugas grabs Jared's shoulder none too gently, and starts pushing him out the door. "As for you, don't think you're getting out of work just cause you broke your hand. If Collins can work with a cast, so can you."

It's on the tip of his tongue to point out that he didn't break his hand so he could get out of work, but there's no point. Misha and Rich go back to what they were doing while Jared is escorted to the infirmary. He wonders if he can apply for a loyalty card. Get a free painkiller and a band aid on your sixth visit.

*

He has spent entirely too much time in this place. It's all business as usual; by some miracle, his hand is not broken. Forty minutes later he's on his way back, elastic bandage on his hand to show for his trouble.

He's missed dinner, but Dugas lets him eat in the empty canteen. Turns out it's fucking difficult to eat with your left hand if you're right-handed. He manages, sort of. Gets a nice mustard stain on his shirt, but it's overdue for a wash anyway. When he's finished, Dugas escorts him back to his cell.

"Jared, look, I dunno what you're doing with Ackles, but can I suggest you be careful? It will start with a broken hand, and next week we'll find you bleeding out in a broom closet."

"I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can. Just don't be stupid."

Jared keeps his mouth shut until they reach his cell. Dugas lets him in, waits by the bars until Jared looks at him over his shoulder. Dugas shakes his head, watches the bars slide shut and leaves.

"Pretty bandage you got there," Jensen says from his usual spot.

Jared ignores him.

"We're not finished, Jared."

"No, we are finished, _Jensen_."

Jensen is off his bunk in a heartbeat, crowding Jared. "You wanna take a swing at me? Go for it. Free shot, take it."

"Fuck off." He tries to push past Jensen, but Jensen can be immovable concrete when he wants to be. "D'you mind?"

"Yes. I mind." Jensen puts a hand on Jared's chest. "Come on. Hit me."

"No."

"You know you want to."

"You don't know anything about me."

Jensen bares his teeth, slides the hand on Jared's chest down to his groin. And squeezes. 

Jared huffs out a breath, eyes slipping shut without his consent.

Jensen smiles. "Is that so?"

"Get the fuck away from me."

"Or what?" Jensen squeezes again, licks his lips slowly. "You want this. Me."

What's the fucking point in denying, when the heat of Jensen's hand has his legs turn to wet noodles? What's the point of saying no, when the blood rushes straight to his dick? What's the point in anything? He grabs a handful of Jensen's shirt and pulls him in, kisses him harshly, more to prove a point than anything else, even if he's only trying to prove it to himself.

Jensen's lips curl into a smile under his own, which only makes Jared push harder, makes him sink his teeth into Jensen's bottom lip until he tastes blood. He pulls away, breathing heavily, skin on fire, desire to get closer and move away battling inside him, tearing him up.

Jensen smirks. "You're pathetic."

"Takes one to know one."

Jensen pulls him closer, kisses him again, and Jared can see where it ends from here. Dugas is right. Another kiss. Another nip. One more need to pull closer and feel all of Jensen. Then blood, tears. Death. It's inevitable. As certain of an ending as any contrived romance novel; a murder mystery where you can tell who the murderer is on page 17. There is no version of this that ends happy.

It should stop him in his tracks but it makes him grab Jensen's hip with his good hand and pull him closer. It doesn't matter that the lights are still on, and anyone can see. It doesn't matter that every single goddamn person he's ever spoken to in this place has warned him about Jensen. It doesn't matter that Jensen has killed, is a murderer, belongs on death row. Or that he stabbed Jared. If he did. Which... Jared hasn't made up his mind about yet. None of it makes one tiny bit of difference, because it doesn't take away from this. This thing between them that has been building for... fuck, he doesn't even know. It slipped in like a virus, rendered his immune system useless, and now all he can do is reach for Jensen. Reach for him, and provide a little spark in the pitch black darkness that closes in tighter and tighter every single goddamn day.

Someone calls for lights out, but it doesn't register. Even once they're shrouded in darkness, all he can focus on is the touch of Jensen's lips, the feel of him solid against him. Jensen's tongue, insistent against his own, pushing and demanding, different from anything he knows. Until Jensen pulls away.

Jared is satisfied to hear Jensen's breathing is as shallow as his own, and some part of him is pleased that he can make the mighty Jensen Ackles do that. Lose control, let slide, if only a little bit.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Jensen whispers. "After everything I said to you, and everything that's happened, just what the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Why do you care?" He tries to pull Jensen back in, but Jensen doesn't give an inch. "Fuck's sake, what do you want?"

Jensen takes another step back, but Jared immediately closes the distance between them. 

"Stop," Jensen says, shaking his head, shaky fingers running through his hair, over his face. "This needs to stop. You need to transfer to another cell."

"Fuck you, you transfer out."

"I was here first."

"I don't give a shit." Jared runs his good hand over his face, tries to see enough of Jensen in the dim light to make out what the hell is going on. Jensen sounds cornered, trapped. The sensation clearly not nearly as familiar to him as it is to Jared. Hell, Jared's been wearing claustrophobia like a new coat that is fitting around him, adjusting to his body. "How about you own up to what's going on here instead?"

"Yeah? Just what the hell do you think is going on here?"

Jared is done waiting for Jensen to work it out, come to terms or whatever the fuck he needs to do to put his head on straight. He pushes Jensen up against the wall with one good hand, leans in so he's right in Jensen's face, and there is no space to look away.

"Shut. The. Fuck. Up."

This time, when his lips meet Jensen it's different. He can taste the desperation on Jensen's tongue, mixed with something much thicker, something that makes his blood run cold, but can't be mistaken for anything else.

Fear.

It's there. Tangible. And it's not just his own. Jensen breathes fear, apprehension. And Jared wants to taste all of it, lick it out of Jensen's mouth until it goes away. He wants to see what's underneath it; what's left when he takes away that bitter illusion.

And it's good. Intoxicating, amazing, gone. 

Jared opens his eyes when Jensen pulls away from him again. Jensen is breathing heavily, warm puffs of air on Jared's face. Jared catches his throat working as he swallows thickly, hand on Jared's hip, thumb rubbing circles over the bone.

The hand slips under his t-shirt, cold fingers on his overheated skin, green eyes locked on his own as his shirt is pulled up further, exposing the bandage on his stomach. In a second that stretches out to what feels like minutes, Jensen lowers his eyes, fingers now tracing the outline of the bandage. Is he admiring his handiwork? Jared holds his breath, goosebumps breaking out over his skin, and then Jensen is leaning further down, pressing his lips to the warm skin just above the bandage.

Jared breathes out harshly, feet spreading further to stop him from losing his balance, the bricks digging into his back a comforting weight holding him up. He should stop this. 

Jensen's breath is warm on his wet skin, tongue trailing lightly as he moves lower, pressing light kisses to the thin trail of hair leading down to the waistband of Jared's sweatpants. He hears the soft thud of Jensen's knees hitting the floor, and his brain catches up with the implications of what's happening.

_Fuck._

If he had ever pictured this happening - which he had not - this is not how he thought it would go. For one, Jensen has not said a word in several minutes, weaving a thick spell of silence around them, only just punctuated by the beating of his own heart. His eyes close when Jensen's fingers dip below the waist of his sweatpants, pulling them down slowly until they fall to his ankles.

He has to look down then, has to convince himself this is really happening, isn't some hallucination fueled by his stab wound getting infected, or him finally losing the last shreds of his fragile sanity. Jensen meets his eyes, shadows from the dim light outside their cell playing over his face, just enough that Jared can make out the tightness of his jaw.

"Jensen..."

Jensen's fingers dance over his dick, half-hard pressing against his boxers, light, barely-there touches. Teasing, testing, he's not sure. Jensen shifts, forehead leaning against Jared's stomach, warm breath like the shimmers of a campfire burning Jared slowly. He feels Jensen's lips move against him, forming words, but they reach Jared's ears as no more than a murmur.

Jared strokes his fingers down the side of Jensen's face, over coarse stubble, down to Jensen's chin so he can tilt his head up towards him. When he does, Jensen's eyes are closed.

"What?" Jared whispers softly, willing Jensen to open his eyes.

"Tell me to stop." Jensen's voice hoarse, barely above a whisper, desperation clinging to the words like thick syrup, not nearly as sweet.

Jared breathes out heavily through his nose. Takes a second too long to send the words to his throat, and something in Jensen gives in that second. He mouths at the outline of Jared's dick through his boxers, and Jared bites down on a groan. Just because the darkness in their cell will hide what is going on, sound will still carry, and he refuses to be the talk of the block tomorrow.

Seemingly encouraged by the small noise that escapes Jared's lips, Jensen hooks his fingers in Jared's boxers and pulls them down in one quick motion. Jared doesn't have time to adjust to the cold air when strong fingers close around him, squeezing lightly before pulling up.

"Fuck," Jared hisses, looking down to see Jensen's fingers on his dick. So different from a woman's. Strong, sure, familiar in a way it shouldn't be.

Jensen leans in closer, darting out his tongue to swipe over the head of Jared's dick, warm hot wet _perfect_ , and Jared's head falls back against the wall with a dull thud.

Jensen's lips close around him, tight vice of his lips dragging up and down his length. Jared's hands scramble for purchase on the wall, one hand finally finding Jensen's hair as if on instinct. When he manages to look down, Jensen is looking up at him, lips stretched sinfully over his dick, moving slowly, his tongue running up the underside with every upward motion. 

"Jesus, Jensen," he breathes out, only just managing to maintain eye contact as his stomach tightens, dick twitches on Jensen's tongue. Jensen's eyes water slightly as he struggles to fit as much of Jared as he can, throat tightening around him and he's not going to last.

It's been too long, it feels too good, he has _wanted_ for too long. 

"Please," he gasps, fingers tightening when Jensen leans into the fingers curled in his hair and he hums, sending vibrations up Jared's spine like an electric charge running through him.

Jensen lifts a hand, fingers sliding up over Jared's thigh to cup his balls, squeezing just right, and Jared's hips have a mind of their own, will not stop moving, seeking more of that delicious wet heat.

"Fuck, Jensen, I'm gonna-" he tries to pull Jensen's head off of him, tries to lean back, but there is nowhere to go, and Jensen's fingers on his hip keep him in place, bruising the skin.

Every bit of pent up, too much of everything feeling rolls through him, frustration, anger, despair, want, as pleasure shoots through him and he comes in Jensen's mouth like he will never stop, can't stop. Jensen swallows around him, and every inch of Jared's skin is tingling, breathing ragged, eyes closed tightly as he tries to keep himself from being too loud.

When he opens his eyes, Jensen let's him slip from his lips, back of his hand wiping over his mouth. He is breathing heavily, swaying slightly when he stretches up slowly, not quite meeting Jared's eyes.

Jared's hand moved to the back of Jensen's neck with the upwards motion, muscles tight under his fingers. As if Jensen is waiting for Jared to let him go. What's the right move here? What is he supposed to do? Say? He glances down at Jensen, notices he's half-hard in his sweatpants. His hands are reaching before he can change his mind, but Jensen takes a step back, hands balled to fists by his side.

"Jen?"

The air between them feels too thick, swirling around both of them, filling up the space with too much tension, too much pressure. When Jensen finally looks up at him, Jared knows, instinctively, what is going to happen, realizes his slip up.

Jensen's eyes are darker than usual, lips slightly swollen, cheeks a little flushed. He swallows once, twice. "Don't call me that."

"Sorry," Jared mumbles, alarmed at how quickly things are shifting even if both of them remain perfectly still.Whatever little bubble they were in for a few minutes is stretching, growing beyond what it should be, can be, one move away from popping in their hands.

Jensen looks like he might say something else, Jared can see his mind working behind his eyes. 

He wants to reciprocate, wants to try to make Jensen feel something of what he just felt. He doesn't want to lose whatever just happened, but he feels it drift away on the slight draft of the rattling airconditioning, evaporating as if it never happened.

Jensen walks over to the sink, and Jared feels too exposed. He pulls his boxers and sweatpants back up, trying to piece together something to say, something that will keep them suspended right here. The line of Jensen's shoulders remains tense as he runs the water, splashes it on his face, and reaches for his toothbrush. Just like that, Jared knows nothing else will be said. He lingers for a moment, considering his options, realizing none of them will manage to hold this together. Instead, he climbs up to his bunk and sits cross-legged, waiting for Jensen to turn back around.

Jensen spits in the sink and watches himself in the mirror, his reflection hidden in shadows, Jared's mind too helpful in supplying the way he knows Jensen is trying to school his features into something more solid. Defenses pulling back up, walls firmly back in place.

Jensen turns around, glances at Jared briefly before slipping into his own bunk and out of sight.

Jared stays in place for a long while, replaying the situation over and over in his head, trying to think of what he should have done, comparing it to what he did. He was wholly, grossly unprepared for everything that happened, but there isn't a part of him willing to deceive himself into thinking he could not have seen it coming. When he stretches out, gets comfortable to fall asleep, it tastes like defeat, like whatever little terrain he may have won has been taken over without him being able to do anything to stop it. The thought that he isn't even sure if he really wants to follow this road is barely even there, more last line in end credits than starring credits. It doesn't matter, he's had a taste, and he's even more hooked than he was. His dreams are filled with Jensen, Jensen's dark eyes, rubbed-raw lips, soft exhales and softer laps of his tongue. Every time he wakes up from another dream, with it comes the hollowing sensation of having lost something he knows he never really had in the first place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Candygramme for being an awesome beta! All remaining mistakes are my own.

If he's completely honest, Jared did not expect anything would change, not really. When the guard comes to pick them up in the morning, he has talked himself into being ready to follow Jensen's lead and pretend nothing happened. Jensen eyes him briefly before stepping out of the cell first, hair mussed, eyes heavy as if he hadn't gotten much sleep. They don't exchange words on their way to the shower, and if Jared's eyes linger on Jensen's back a little too long while they undress, no one can really blame him for that, and no one needs to know.

Misha and Rich are already in the showers, both of them looking up in unison when Jared and Jensen enter. They take their usual places as Rich whistles softly through his teeth. When Jared looks over, Rich's eyebrow is raised, lips pursed, eyes fixed on the dark bruise over Jared's hipbone where Jensen had held him in place. Jensen is oblivious, or pretends to be, but Jared feels his cheeks flush. He turns his back on all of them, tries to focus on the water, washing away the last traces of Jensen on his skin. 

All four of them make it to the kitchen in a tense silence, or, tense to Jared, the other three seem too preoccupied with their own thoughts to notice. He opts to fry eggs because it's something he can easily do by himself, grateful for the lack of conversation which he knows will happen sooner or later. With any of them. Out of the three, he is most motivated to avoid Jensen.

"So, Nemo, you need any tips?"

He could have seen this coming a mile away. "Don't."

"Come ooooon," Rich leans against the counter, arms folded, amused smirk looking Jared up and down. "You must have questions... men are... well, whole different set of equipment-"

"I'm familiar," Jared says, scraping some singed on something off the stove with his slotted spoon.

"Mm, first mistake. This is a whole different ball game," Rich pauses, snorts, "pun intended."

"You are not giving me Male Sexuality 101."

"You're a bit short on Googling abilities, I feel it's my job, nay, my duty to-"

"Leave the man alone." Misha, his saving angel appears out of nowhere and just in time. "Go set up the counter."

"But-"

A firm look from Misha has Rich throwing his arms up and walking away, muttering something under his breath about good deeds and male anatomy.

"Ignore him," Misha says gently, bumping his shoulder against Jared's. "He means well, he just lacks..."

"Boundaries of appropriateness?" He flips the eggs quickly, watching the sizzle he has grown to perfect in the last few days.

"I was gonna go with tact, but that works."

"I don't wanna talk about it." 

Misha nods, tilts his head slightly as if he's looking for something. "You know what you're doing?"

The question mark is thin, but it's there all the same. He meets Misha's eyes slowly, considering the question as if he hasn't always known the answer. "Not a fucking clue."

Jensen and Rich serve breakfast, while Misha and Jared hang back cleaning. Really, both of them are more interested in watching their cellmates work together. It would be comical if it was any other day, if Jared couldn't feel the ghost of Jensen's lips on his own. Rich stands ramrod straight, alternating between his usual smalltalk with everyone who stops long enough to entertain him, and rolling his eyes at Jensen for being in his space. At some point, he actually slaps Jensen's hand away, tells him to stick to the bacon.

"Bacon is gross," Jensen says, frowning at the greasy strips as if they personally offend him, "I'll do the eggs."

"Bacon is..." Rich shakes his head, flicks his spoon out so a bit of egg lands on Jensen's shoulder. "Fine, fucking fine, do the eggs then."

It's menial, and pointless, and such an odd flavor of normal that it settles something in Jared's stomach, eases his hunched up shoulders a little.

Misha fixes them a plate, hesitates for a moment before making a fourth one for Jensen, just cereal and toast. "I don't think we're in danger of going on any awkward double dates any time soon."

Jared smiles despite himself, shakes his head. "We're not... dating? Fuck, is dating even the right word in prison?"

Misha shrugs, takes his own and Jared's plate and moves them to the counter in the back. Jared trails behind him and sits down with Misha. 

"Not dating if you can't go on dates."

"What are you two then?"

Misha pokes his eggs, drowned in hot sauce. "It's... I don't know what to call it. I don't think I could stand to be here for a day if it wasn't for him."

"So a product of the situation?"

"No." Misha shakes his head, puts his fork down and runs a hand through his hair. "It's not just that. I think at this point even if we got out..."

Jared hums. Thinking about a world outside of the prison walls makes him long for something that isn't necessarily even there anymore. The thought of meeting Jensen outside... he can't tell what would have happened. He would venture a guess that whatever they got into now would not have happened outside of prison. Would he really have looked at another man like that? Would Jensen even have entertained the thought if he wasn't bored? 

"Whose bright idea was it to let a vegetarian work in a kitchen?" Rich stomps over, pulls out a chair and dumps his plate on the table. "It's not healthy."

"I'm not a vegetarian," Jensen says evenly, standing behind them with his plate, and for a moment Jared wonders if he will join them. What would happen if he did. Misha making the plate practically an open invitation, but he's not sure if Rich is ready to eat with Jensen. Jared is not sure if he is either.

He doesn't have to entertain the thought any further when Jensen walks past them, to a table in the very back of the kitchen. He's still easily within earshot, but far enough removed from them that it feels like a statement.

"Can you believe this guy?" Rich mouths, digging into his breakfast.

"Leave it alone," Misha says around a mouthful of eggs, glancing at Jensen as if he is considering asking him to join them.

"Don't tell me you're on the Ackles bandwagon, too," Rich says, eyes wide as if Misha just suggested he is joining a terrorist organization. "One of you is enough."

"I'm not on any bandwagon," Jared huffs, but it sounds thin even to his own ears.

"You've got some lovely bruises that would suggest otherwise."

Jensen clears his throat, and Jared kicks Rich under the table at the same time as Misha does. 

Jared drags out the clean up after breakfast, content to have some time to himself while everyone else prepares lunch. He tries to create the space in his mind to adjust, to find his feet and come up with a way to keep moving forward. Even if the forward is endless and there is no real purpose to anything. A lack of sleep really does not have the greatest effect on his mood. Everything a little tight, a little too _there_ , making the absence of escape all the more noticeable. 

He's startled out of his doom and gloom by a conversation behind him; Misha's quiet words, a low chuckle and lower words in response. His eyes widen as he leans back to look around the shelves. There they are, Misha and Jensen, who have formed their own little assembly line of sandwich making. Their backs are turned to them, but they both seem at ease as they work around each other. He has to strain his ears to catch the quiet conversation between them.

"It would be better if there were pickles, I think the best we can do is a sad cucumber in the back of the fridge."

"Every sandwich needs a bit of a crunch," Jensen responds, reaching past Misha to grab some slices of cheese.

"That cheese has gotten unfortunately crunchy."

Jared narrows his eyes, thoughts racing as he tries to figure out what is happening. Is this Misha accepting Jensen into their little group? For Jared's sake? Making an effort? Is it Jensen trying with the least offensive person between them, feeling out the chance of being friendly? Or is he looking at a reflection of something that was there long before Jared even set foot in Angola? Traces of a friendship cut short by a horrible experience? Whichever it is, however confusing it is, it feels like a roundabout way of Jensen opening up. Even if Jared would have preferred he do some of that opening up with him, it's a step in the right direction. Maybe. Unless it's another game. He has a feeling that Misha would be able to see through that easily.

"I don't like it." Whispered voice of Rich next to his ear, and Jared jumps, swaying into the shelves and knocking several pans to the floor with a loud clang that breaks the silence.

Jensen and Misha turn around, and Rich and Jared turn their backs just as quickly, pretending to be engaged in conversation about the perks of cooking spaghetti in salted water. Jared doesn't believe for a second that they're buying it, but at least neither of them comments. A glance over his shoulder confirms Misha and Jensen have returned to their sandwiches, and he nudges Rich, nods his head at the yard.

Rich follows on his heels and they step into the humid air, letting the heavy door fall shut behind them. 

"Why is this happening," Rich exclaims, lighting a cigarette and dragging deeply. "Couldn't you have fucking kept it in your pants, Nemo?"

"Hey, the riot landed Jensen in the kitchen, not me." He exhales slowly, watches the smoke drift away from him. "Would it be so bad to have another friend in here? Someone who had your back?"

"Oh for fuck's sake, you're a lovesick puppy, you've got dick on the mind and you can't even think straight."

Jared swallows down the annoyance, takes another drag. "Wouldn't you rather have him as an ally than an enemy?"

"I would rather not have him at all." Rich leans back against the table, eyes drifting over the other inmates in the yard. "I gave you three months. You didn't quite make it."

"I didn't sleep with him."

Rich shrugs, waves his hand. "Semantics. Remind me to give you some condoms."

"Look, he's not going anywhere soon, hell, ever. Let's just try not to kill each other?"

Rich stays quiet for longer than Jared is comfortable with before he finally answers. "He fucks up Misha, dregs up shit that is dead and buried, I'll decorate the kitchen with his insides."

Fair enough. Probably the best he can hope for.

The rest of the day passes uneventfully, with Jensen and Misha serving lunch and dinner while Rich hovers behind them glaring at Jensen's back. It's almost comical. Jensen doesn't eat with them, steers clear of all of them except Misha, and if Jared is a little jealous, he chalks it up to Rich's frustration being contagious and bleeding into his own thoughts. He's both dreading and looking forward to being locked in a cell with Jensen. At least he won't be able to avoid Jensen anymore, but who knows what will happen as a result.

The four of them walk back to their cells in silence, escorted by Dugas, who lets Rich and Misha into their cells first. Jared stands awkwardly a few feet away from Jensen, shifting his weight from foot to foot, inexplicable nerves crawling under his skin. He's been careful all day to keep any daydreaming about Jensen at bay, even if Rich's suggestive comments and largely unhelpful "advice" had made this more of a chore than it should be.

Dugas unlocks their cell and Jensen enters first, making a beeline for the sink. Jared lingers by the bars as they slide shut behind him, wondering if the air in their cell always felt this heavy. He watches as Jensen goes through the motions of washing his hands, his face, brushing his teeth, no trace of the usual humming this is accompanied by and maybe, just maybe, Jensen is a little out of his depth as well.

"Are you going to ignore me forever now?" His voice is low, but he can't unhear the needy edge to his own voice, curses himself for not handling any of this very well. Then again, it's not as if anything in his past prepared him from dealing with this particular situation, so perhaps he can be forgiven for handling it without any tact or elegance.

"Quit being dramatic," Jensen mumbles as he puts his toothbrush in the cup by the sink and turns around slowly. He takes his time to raise his face, and Jared is taken back by how tired he looks. Skin a little more pale than usual, freckles standing out a little more, eyes dim and lacking their usual amusement.

"I'm not being dramatic, I'm just saying-"

Jensen sighs, and 24 hours of exhaustion and tension are added to the already too charged up space around them. He runs a hand through his hair and looks off to the wall, carefully avoiding Jared's eyes. "What do you want me to say?"

Good question. It would be nice if he had an answer. He opens his mouth, once, twice, before trusting his brain to come up with something halfway sensible. "What are you thinking?"

Jensen snorts, shakes his head. "I'm thinking that this," he gestures between them awkwardly, "is a recipe for disaster. I'm thinking you are putting entirely too much thought into it, being loud as hell about it, and it's making my head hurt."

Not an admission he was ready for, even if a small part of him is pleased that Jensen is not entirely dismissing him. He makes a snap decision, gambling on what little he has managed to come to terms with, banking on the fact that Jensen has not quite requested a transfer out of their cell just yet. As far as he knows. "Maybe I can take your mind off it."

Jensen's eyes snap up to him, flashing darkly, as if of all the things Jared may have said, that was the last thing he expected to hear.

"I guess I do still owe you," Jared continues, playing it safe, covering his weak spot and hopefully disguising the fact that he would not be opposed to Jensen cashing in. Quite the opposite. He takes a step closer, crowding Jensen who doesn't move an inch, just observes Jared quietly as if he's trying to do a speedy cost-benefit analysis.

Something clicks; Jared sees it in the way Jensen's shoulders roll back, chin lifts, jaw hardens and he's clenching and unclenching his fingers again. "Consider your debt settled," Jensen says, voice flat, uninterested in a way that belies the heaviness of his gaze on Jared. 

Before Jared has a chance to respond, Jensen pushes past him to his bunk and sits down.

Jared blinks, unsure of what just happened. He was never much good at subtle, really, it was a miracle he had managed to sustain at least one reasonably long-term relationship, but he has no idea what he said to piss Jensen off. No effort on his part required apparently. His feet itch to turn around, press the issues and end this uncomfortable weirdness between them, but he doesn't have the words to take it away. Instead, he goes to the sink and finishes his own bedtime ritual in silence. By the time he's ready for bed, the lights have been turned off. He glances at Jensen, stretched out on his back, looking out over the cell block, ignoring him. He pauses for a moment before thinking better of it and pulling himself up onto his bunk. At this rate, it is going to be a long fifteen years.

*

Somehow, the whole week passes in a blur. Jared has settled into a routine that never seems to end or change. Wake up, shower, don't look at Jensen, take offense at Rich's lewd comments, prep food, serve food, clean food. Prep food, serve food, clean food. Prep food, serve food, clean food. Sleep, repeat. He can't tell if he's bored of the monotony, or oddly grateful for some sense of normalcy, however flimsy. His stitches are taken out, and even if the scar is unlikely to win him any beauty contests, the pain is only noticeable now when he moves too quickly. The wrap on his hand is taken off. He goes to counseling, and does his best to avoid probing questions, tries harder not to give incriminating answers.

Fortunately, the therapist has backed off from any questions about Jensen, instead, choosing to explore his feelings about Alex and the girl in the liquor store. Jared has too many feelings about the whole thing. Under the guilt lies frustration, anger, at himself for not making better decisions, at Sandy for putting him in an awful position, at himself, for pushing Sandy to this place. At his mom for not protecting him. It's a lot to unpack and he knows he's only scratched the surface, but once he made the decision to give the therapy a shot, to open up because just what the hell does he have to lose, it eases something inside him. It's as if he's suddenly able to take two steps back, to remove himself from the situation and acknowledge the other variables that danced around the whole situation. It's confrontational, and he swings back and forth between hating himself more and feeling an odd pang of sympathy for himself. It's progress, the doctor tells him.

Over the course of three days, Misha and Jensen grow more comfortable in each other's company, to the point where Jensen does not really engage with anyone else, Misha watches Jared with growing concern, and Rich is about half a second away from setting the whole kitchen on fire on a daily basis. Jared can relate, although his frustration is more turned inward than outward. He wishes Jensen would talk to him, acknowledge his presence, but as far as Jensen is concerned, Jared is invisible. 

It's another afternoon of Misha and Jensen bonding over mashed potatoes and meat balls, Jared scrubbing counters, and Rich slamming everything he touches with a little more force than necessary. It's when he takes a stab at the large, industrial tray of vegetables that Jared spent a good thirty minutes preparing that Jared's had enough.

"You need to chill the fuck out, dude."

Rich sucks on his bottom lip, slams the oven tray into the oven and spins around to face Jared. "He's bad news. He's dragging up all of this... all of this shit. Fucking all of it. Reminiscing about the good old times."

"In E-wing?"

"And Misha is letting him." Rich sounds as much on edge as he looks.

"May be therapeutic?"

"Don't give me that shit, Nemo." Rich steps closer, lowers his voice. "He's... he's talking about it. About what happened."

"He's talking to Jensen?" Jared winces, glances over his shoulder at the two of them.

Rich looks uncomfortable for a moment, eyes shifting to the floor. "Not... not just Ackles."

"To you?"

Rich hums in agreement, arms curling over his chest almost as if he needs to give himself a hug, and Jared would consider giving him a hug if he was more than halfway sure he wouldn't get mocked or a punch to the face for his trouble.

"I... isn't that a good thing?"

When Rich looks back up, Jared is taken aback by the _brokenness_ looking back at him, Rich's eyes dim, warm hazel now thin, as if it's been diluted with something Jared would never dare label as tears. Rich shakes his head, balls a fist against his forehead as if it physically hurts him to talk about any of this. "I can't, fuck, I can't fucking hear it. It makes me want to bribe someone to get into E-wing and end some lives."

"You can't."

"I _know_ that." 

"Hey," Jared puts down the dish cloth, hesitates for a moment before squeezing his hand on Rich's shoulder. "It's his. Not yours. Just be there. That's good enough."

"It is mine, though. It can't not be, with what we..." Rich gestures vaguely. "It makes me, fuck, I don't know, it makes me different around him. Careful. Like walking on eggshells."

"I'm sure he's loving that."

"I'm sure I'm about one side step removed from spending some quality time in the infirmary."

"So separate it from him, then. This happened _to_ him. It's not who he _is_." Yes, Jared is picking up all kinds of healthy thinking patterns in therapy. And that particular one, he's been trying to apply to Jensen whenever the thought of Jensen being a murderer gets a little too suffocating in its seriousness.

Rich nods, unconvinced, but fuck, there really isn't anything better to say. Jared is happy for Misha to have someone to talk to, confused as shit about that person being Jensen, and sure, he can see several different ways in which this could blow up in everyone's face, but somehow, both of them look like they need it. He wishes he knew what landed Jensen in that group therapy, that would maybe help explain some things, provide him with a context to work with. He wonders if it has something to do with this Chris who no one can mention to Jensen without ending up dead.

That night, when they're locked into their cell, Jared takes it upon himself to test the waters. It's been three days with barely a word spoken between them, and he misses Jensen's easy snark, mocking amusement at Jared's expense. Their cell too empty and quiet around them if it's not filled with Jensen's trademark sarcasm. What that says about him is something he is happy to leave unexplored.

"So you and Misha really are friends then, hm?"

"You sound surprised," Jensen flicks through the pages of his book, not looking at Jared.

"You told me you don't have friends."

"Things change." Jensen finds his place in the book, pulls up one of his knees. "Why, you jealous or something?"

"Nah," Jared says, doing his best to sound casual, "just wondering if you have any ulterior motives."

Jensen's shoulders tense, small movement barely there, Jared wouldn't have noticed if his entire attention had not been focused on Jensen. "Misha is of no use to me."

Misha. He has never heard Jensen call Misha by his first name. It raises suspicions, some cogs turning over in his head, wondering what part of the puzzle he is not seeing. Jensen always has a motive, doesn't seem to breathe without intent, and maybe Rich is right. Something fishy is going on here.

"If you hurt him-"

Jensen throws the book on the mattress and gets up slowly, looking out across the cell block before he spins around. He takes two languid steps toward Jared, head tilted, that damned smirk Jared will not admit he missed, playing around his lips. "You'll what?"

Good. This is familiar territory. He knows all the steps to this dance. Jared is drawn to the soft looking skin of Jensen's neck, wonders if it feels - tastes - as nice as it looks, what it would be like to run his tongue over it and feel Jensen swallow. "Not me," he manages, "Rich will make you the next accident to happen in the kitchen."

Jensen rubs his cheek, scratches at the stubble. "He doesn't have half my skills."

Jared would like to know how exactly they got to the point where they are casually joking about Jensen's homicidal tendencies? At what point did he shove common sense and threadbare morality aside and decide it just didn't fucking matter anymore? None of it registers, instead, Jensen's words draw Jared's eyes down to his lips, vividly remembering Jensen's _skills_. Jensen catches the move and raises an eyebrow, tilts his head to the other side.

"Can't stop playing with fire, huh? You must have gotten into some shit as a kid."

"Don't see you walking away, transferring out." 

Jensen hums, takes another step closer. "You're not entirely wrong, though."

Jared frowns, tracing back the conversation in his head. "Which bit?"

"My ulterior motives." Jensen's toes touch Jared's, shadows playing a funny dance on his face. He reaches out a hand, places it on Jared's hip lightly, thumb digging into the bruise that's fading under Jared's t-shirt. 

The warmth of Jensen's hand tightens Jared's throat, realization that he missed being this close to Jensen hot on the heels of an uneasy feeling that settles low in his stomach. "I... what do you..."

Jensen leans in, lips brushing over Jared's jaw, up to his ear. "Just not quite the motives you're thinking of."

Is this flirting? Is Jensen flirting with him? Fuck, he's torn between interpreting it as a come on and a thinly veiled threat, either option equally likely. Jensen removes the necessity for him to think about it when he grabs the back of Jared's neck and pulls him down into a hard kiss. Nothing tender, bruising fingers, insistent lips, that clever fucking tongue brushing against his own. Jensen tastes of toothpaste and darkness, gray monotony clashing with broken glass. He moves like he's been trapped in a box for weeks and has finally been let out, urgency behind his every move, every nip of his teeth on Jared's lower lip, every squeeze of his fingers on the back of Jared's neck. 

Jared loses himself in the feeling, his own hands coming up to settle on Jensen's hips, softly, barely-there, and when Jensen doesn't pull away, Jared's skin warms as if Jensen is a ray of the very sun itself. Jensen breaks the kiss, but he doesn't move, forehead leaning against Jared as he tries to catch his breath.

"You distract me," he says under his breath, eyes somewhere on Jared's lips.

"Is that..." Jared swallows, tries again, "is that bad?"

Jensen nods slowly, seemingly more to himself than to Jared. "It's dangerous."

"I have it on good authority you're the danger."

"You're not wrong." He slides his hand from the back of Jared's neck to sit over his chest. Finally raises his eyes to Jared, and Jared isn't sure how to read him. He seems... he almost seems wistful. Like he's looking at something he doesn't have. But maybe wants. Maybe.

"Jensen?"

Jensen sighs, finally lets go and takes a step back. Jared immediately misses the warmth of his body against his skin. "Some shit is happening, ok? And fuck, this is just... the worst fucking timing in the world."

"What do you mean?"

Jensen winces, shakes his head. "Just... just go to bed, alright? Don't worry about it."

"I want to worry about it." Yes, maybe they have done all of this a little - lot - backwards. But he'd be lying if he said he is not enjoying Jensen's company, frustrating as it is sometimes. It may actually be nice to have a real conversation with Jensen, one that does not feel like a sword fight where he's trying to balance on one foot and avoid getting stabbed. Fuck, he wants Jensen to tell him something that is real, something about himself, something that would be Jared's to know, not whatever tidbit of distorted information he picked up in a corner of the cell block.

"Don't. Doesn't concern you."

"Ok, so it's cool for you to suck my dick, but to actually be straight with me for once is too much to ask?"

Jensen grinds his teeth, expression melting into annoyance. Good, Jared is much more familiar with that one, too. "Poor choice of words."

"You know what I mean."

"Do I?"

Jensen is stalling. It's unsettling. Unnatural, even. It makes Jared think something must be really fucking wrong. Subtlety, niceties, none of this is part of Jensen's repertoire. He hasn't minced his words once since Jared set foot in this cell, so why now?

"What's going on?" He tries to keep his voice light, tries to seduce Jensen into opening up, but it's like trying to melt diamonds.

"Don't worry your pretty head about it." Jensen considers him for a second longer before turning to his bunk.

Conversation over. Sure, he could force the issue, poke, prod, see if he can find a weak spot in Jensen's armor, but he estimates his chances of being let out of Angola tonight better than Jensen telling him something he would like to know. Still, something in their little universe is out of sync, and Jared isn't pretentious enough to think he's solely responsible for messing with Jensen's steely alignment.

*

The next day, he's serving breakfast with Misha when his eye catches Jensen talking with a guard on the far end of the canteen. They're standing too close, both looking at the other inmates milling around, but definitely engaged in conversation. Jensen's face is a mask of barely hidden anger, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Jared wishes he could overhear what they were saying. The guard shakes his head, several times, Jensen getting more tense with every shake.

"What do you think that's all about?" he mumbles at Misha as he mindlessly scoops eggs onto an inmate's plate.

Misha follows his gaze, presses his lips together when he sees them. "Fuck, who knows man."

"Jensen seems pissed," Jared says, the smell of fried eggs making him slightly nauseous. "I thought he had the guards in his pocket."

"I imagine there are limits even to his powers of persuasion," Misha shrugs, smiling at the inmate in front of him who greets him.

"You guys seem to get along."

"And you seem surprised."

Jared huffs, rolls his eyes. "You've gone from telling me he's the Antichrist to swapping cooking tips with him."

"I'm sure the devil has some tricks up his sleeve that may come in handy sometimes. Bet he poaches a mean egg."

Oh good, it's not just Jared who has lost the plot. He finishes serving, then joins Misha and Rich in the back to eat their breakfast. 

"So, apparently," Rich says around a mouthful of bacon, "Marcus, you remember Marcus, Nemo?"

Jared's stomach clenches, images of his first few days with his first cellie rushing to the surface. It seems like a lifetime ago, but the memories come entirely too easily. What a train wreck. "What about him?"

"He's dead." Rich says unceremoniously, nodding when Jared and Misha turn wide eyes on him. 

"He's what?"

"Mmm, rubbed the wrong con the wrong way it seems."

"During the riot?" Misha asks, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Nah, just the other day."

"How do you know?" Jared isn't sure if he should be relieved, upset, or just indifferent. It's difficult to feel anything for the scary motherfucker who literally forced him to his knees, but he feels like he should feel some kind of way about it.

"What, you think your boyfriend is the only one who gets Intel from other parts of the prison?"

Jared looks at him pointedly, and Rich rolls his eyes in response.

"Whatever, man, your cellie-with-benefits had his wings clipped, remember? He's as stuck in this wing as we are now."

It hadn't occurred to him. Jensen complaining about being claustrophobic in the kitchen... of course it wasn't that, not just that. His movements were restricted, that has to make it more difficult to pull strings when no one is watching. He looks around, wondering if Jensen has rejoined them in the kitchen but there is no trace of him.

"He's been acting weird," Jared mumbles, eyeing Misha's cereal. He's getting fucking sick and tired of eggs.

"By weird do you mean he isn't sucking your dick, or he is? It's hard to keep track."

His cheeks flush despite himself, and he keeps his eyes trained on his plate to avoid the smirk he knows is plastered on Rich's face. In a way it's only fair they get even, not like Jared hasn't peeked into their cell on more than one occasion, curiosity guiding his eyes to where they should not go. He wonders how much Rich and Misha have actually seen.

"I mean, he's all... cagey. Said I'm distracting him. Seems like he had something to be distracted from."

"Nemo, I firmly believe that is as close as Ackles will ever come to saying those three magic words." Rich smiles at him, hand on his chest, faux-heartfelt eyes entirely to glinty to be taken seriously.

"You're a fucking asshole."

"He really is," Misha interjects, "but he's my fucking asshole."

Both Rich and Jared stare at him open-mouthed, Rich's fork nearly dropping from his fingers. 

Jared snorts. "I can't tell if that was or wasn't a Freudian slip, Mish. TMI, means nothing to you either, huh?"

Rich does not even look around before fisting a hand in Misha's shirt, pulling him close and kissing him. Misha's coffee spills over his lap, but he doesn't seem to notice, and Jared definitely sees more tongue than is acceptable this early in the morning. It only lasts a few seconds, both of them a little out of breath, a little flushed as Rich lets go of Misha's shirt. Misha considers him for a moment, takes a sip of his coffee and smiles serenely.

"Get a room, guys," Jared fake-grumbles, hiding his smile in his own coffee.

"Leave, Nemo, go wipe some counters." Rich's voice sounds a little rough around the edges, and while Jared is fairly certain they're not going to go tearing at each other in front of him, the fact that he is no more than _fairly_ certain has him pick up his plate and move. Not like he was all that hungry to begin with.

He spots Jensen on the other side of the kitchen, behind the shelves, nursing a cup of coffee and glaring a hole into the wall. Typical. Figuring he can't do much more harm at this point, he pours himself a new cup of coffee and sits with Jensen.

After a beat, Jensen glances at him, seemingly confused at Jared's presence. "What's this?"

"Romeo and Romeo are getting frisky. Figured it was a safe bet to get out of the way."

"Remind me to make my own sandwich for lunch."

It's a little off, a little lacking in the usual snark, a lot concerning. "You and that guard seemed friendly."

"You're not gonna let it go, are you?" Jensen sounds exasperated, almost exhausted. 

"Probably not. You could just tell me what is going on and we can both save some energy."

"Wanna get frisky in the stock room?" 

Jensen's tone of voice hasn't changed at all, so Jared has to do a double take to make sure he heard right. "I... are you distracting me with sex now?"

Jensen shrugs, purses his lips. "I don't know, is it working?"

_Yes_. "Maybe."

"Too easy." With that, Jensen gets up, dumps the remainder of his breakfast in a trash can and disappears.

He stays out of sight for the rest of the morning, and when Rich and Misha mysteriously disappear for twenty minutes, Jared is considerate enough to pretend he doesn't notice. Must be something in the air. 

Over lunch, he spots Jensen speaking with Dugas, looking decidedly more agitated than this morning. Dugas is not looking at him, but he looks pissed. Jared squints, does his best to read their lips, but Jensen is a mumbler at the best of times, and Dugas's mustache does not help at all. Oh, and the fact that Jared can't read lips. He can read body language, though, and if he didn't know any better, he would say it looks as if Jensen is threatening Dugas. He's towering over the guard, leaning in a little too aggressively, clearly expending a lot of energy to keep his voice quiet. Dugas finally says something, shrugs, and walks off. Jensen looks after him for a moment, then marches back into the kitchen, straight for the storage cupboard. A moment later, the sound of cans falling off the shelves reaches Jared's ears, the noise only just muffling Jensen's swearing.

He knows better than to go in there; if nothing else, prison is teaching him patience. It's a crash course and he's failed his first few exams, but it's becoming easier to spot a potentially explosive situation and _not_ play with matches directly next to it. He manages to keep his mouth shut when Jensen returns a few minutes later, blank look on his face, but his jaw clenched just a little too tight. He doesn't say anything while he serves dinner next to Jensen, quietly ladling runny stew into plastic bowls, Jensen seemingly on a different planet. He waits, all the way until they're back in their cell and lights have been turned off. Jensen is lying stretched out on his bunk, looking out over the cell block, but Jared suspects he's not paying any attention to what he's seeing.

"Rough day?" He tries, keeping his voice light.

Jensen closes his eyes for a moment longer than a blink, as if he's trying to scrape what little patience he has together so as not to snap at Jared. "What gave it away?"

"Your redecoration of the stock room."

Jensen snorts, glances up at where Jared is leaning against the wall. He looks even more tired than he did this morning, dark smudges under his eyes, frown creasing his brow like it's etched on. 

"So is it being trapped in the kitchen? Did you lose your bargaining chip with the guards or something?"

Jensen shifts so his head is on the pillow, tilted sideways to look at Jared. "I didn't lose shit."

"Then what? They finally caught on to your murderous ways?"

"I've been outbid," Jensen mumbles, breaking the eye contact in favor of studying his fingernails. 

"Huh? How? Wait, were you actually paying guards?"

With a roll of his eyes Jensen waves a hand at him as if to bat Jared away. "Tacky. No. I know people. Knew people. It awarded me a certain... advantage. Here and there."

Jared's curiosity is more than piqued, and he slides down the wall to sit on the floor so he can see Jensen better. "So now someone else has better connections than you?"

"Something like that."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Guess that's it for your extracurricular activities then." Jared can't say he's too heartbroken about it. Step one in the rehabilitation process is quit committing felonies. Well, step two. Step one would be admitting the commission of said felonies and acknowledging they were wrong.

Jensen licks his lips, considers Jared. "There were a few more perks than getting rid of the odd piece of shit."

Sure. Jensen had gotten him to see Alex, go to the funeral... found out about Misha. But most of what he did still seems self-serving, perhaps with a side of tit for tat potential. "You'll be alright. We do fine without perks."

"You don't have a target the size of Texas painted on your back."

"What?"

"Nothing." Jensen shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and Jared's eyes are drawn to the strip of bare skin on Jensen's stomach the motion reveals. Soft skin over hard muscle... he wonders what it would taste like.

Before he can change his mind, he scoots over until he's right by the bed.

"What are you doing?"

He ignores Jensen, reaches out a hand to stroke his fingers over Jensen's stomach lightly, fascinated as tiny goosebumps break out under his fingertips. 

"Jared..."

Jared's fingers slip under the waistband of Jensen's sweatbands, brushing over a sharp hipbone, down to his boxers. He feels Jensen's eyes on him, and he can't back down now, feels like he's come too far and to stop now would be giving up. Jared doesn't give up. He shifts so he's on his knees, cold concrete digging into his kneecaps, one arm balanced on the mattress as he presses his lips to Jensen's stomach. The sharp intake of breath above him spurs him on, tongue peeking out to taste skin, salty, warm, and he wants more.

His hand pushes Jensen's sweats down, thumb hooked in his boxers to pull them down as well, Jensen's hard dick so fucking close to his face he doesn't have time to remember he really isn't gay and really shouldn't be half as turned on by this as he is. He closes his fingers around Jensen, looks up at him when he hisses out a breath. Jensen's staring back at him, wide-eyed, lips slightly parted, something not too far removed from alarm in his expression. He squeezes slightly as he drags his hand up, thumb rubbing over the head, as Jensen twitches in his hand.

Turns out it's really not that different from touching himself, just way hotter. He leans forward, darts his tongue over the head, tasting precome and _Jensen_.

"Fuck," Jensen breathes out, hand scrambling for purchase on Jared's shoulder, sliding up to the back of his neck.

He takes a moment to test the weight of Jensen on his tongue, getting used to the feel, before he closes his lips around him and slides down slowly. He tries to mimic what feels good to him, little swipes of tongue, tight pull of his lips, letting Jensen hit the back of his throat and trying to stop his eyes from watering as he swallows. Giving blow jobs is messier than he thought. After he sets an experimental rhythm, alternating between a quick up and down motion and a teasing lick just under the head of Jensen's dick every so often, he tilts his head to look up at Jensen, and what he sees is enough to reach down with his free hand and relieve some pressure on himself. Jensen is a picture of abandon, head back, muscles in his neck straining as his lips move wordlessly, hips moving to meet Jared of their own accord, fingers now fisting tight in Jared's hair, not quite pushing or pulling, but definitely there. 

The knowledge that he can make Jensen unwind like this, forget himself if only for a moment, courses through him like white hot tension and he hums around Jensen.

"Fuck, Jared."

When Jensen pulls him back, he lets go with a pop that is downright obscene, hand still curled around Jensen, Jensen's hand covering his own. Two quick jerks and Jensen is coming all over his chest, sound like someone punched the breath out of him, and that sound most definitely will carry.

Jensen's hand lets go of him, and Jared presses and open-mouthed kiss to Jensen's lower stomach, mentally congratulating himself on not fucking this up. He sits back on his heels, watches Jensen who's breathing heavily and staring back at him like he's never seen Jared before.

When he finds his voice, Jared is entirely prepared to hear something he'd rather not, so he's taken aback by Jensen's words. 

"Who taught you to suck dick like that?" There's too much breath in his words, and Jared clenches his jaw, pretending the sound doesn't go straight to his still hard dick. He did alright then.

"Porn," he offers with a smile that widens when Jensen snorts in response.

"Fast learner."

The lines of Jensen's body look at ease, more relaxed than a few minutes ago, and yes, Jared is going to take full credit for that. He pushes the questions he still has to the back of his mind as he hesitates for a moment. It seems like it's always whatever happens right after that sets the tone for how this kind of thing plays out. He fucked up the last time, but he learned. Instead of brushing Jensen off, he leans over again, one hand on the wall behind Jensen keeping him up, and the lack of any warning in Jensen's expression encourages him to lightly brush his lips over Jensen's. A barely-there breath of tongue, and Jared pulls back as Jensen hums against his lips.

"Goodnight, Jensen."

He doesn't let the moment linger, content to take what he has, and he pushes himself upright, climbs into his own bunk. That night becomes the first night he jerks off in Angola, biting down on his fist to keep quiet, two pumps of his hand enough to have him come with a bitten down sob, frustration, anger, and want spilling out of him. If Jensen hears him, he doesn't comment, and despite all the mess of these ridiculous few days, when Jared falls asleep, it's more relaxed than he has been the entire time he's spent in Angola.

*

When Jared wakes up, it's to the realization that it is later than usual. Of course, weekend. Funny how weekends are something to be dreaded in here. He prefers just being at work, going to the kitchen. The structure of the day is familiar, comfortable. Predictable. Weekends are chaotic, impulsive. The cell block around him is waking up, muffled noises of people moving in their bunks, the flush of a toilet, the jingle of a guard's keys. An odd melody he could hum along to effortlessly by now. He shifts up on his bunk, eyes adjusting to the light that filters into the cell from the corridor. His eyes find Rich and Misha's bunk, unsurprised to see one too-big shape on the bottom bunk. How the hell do they fit? Not that he's entertaining the possibility, but it seems improbable if not downright impossible for him and Jensen to fit into one of their bunks. Not unless they lie foot-to-head.

"You awake?"

Jensen manages to sound crisp and wide awake, even as the lull of sleep still clings to Jared like a comfortable blanket. 

"Yeah."

"Any plans for the day?"

He frowns, rubs a hand over his face to wake himself up a bit more. Why the hell would Jensen care? "Um, work out? Maybe... get some... sun?"

"How ambitious."

"Why, you got adventures planned?"

"Something like that." Jensen rolls out of his bunk and pads over to the toilet. He relieves himself, washes his hands, and Jared rolls his head to the side to watch him walk the three steps back.

Some time during the night, Jensen must have pulled off his shirt. He's been doing that lately. However, this is the first time he hasn't pulled on a pair of sweatpants before getting out of bed. Maybe he's getting... comfortable?

He lingers by the bunks, for a brief moment looking like a normal guy; sleep-ruffled hair, none of the usual intensity to his eyes or tension to any part of him. Disarmed, somehow. He scratches the back of his head and yawns, and Jared just barely resists the urge to grab him, pull him close, and kiss the sleepiness off his lips. Perhaps he would have, if the buzzer hadn't sounded, signaling the start of a new day.

Showering is another reason to dislike weekends. He's spoiled; only ever having to strip in front of Rich and Misha, and now Jensen. On the weekend, it's too crowded, too many wandering eyes, too much tension and vulnerability in the air. Somehow, he has managed to build up a bit of a reputation. Perhaps that is too strong of a word, but the inmates mostly leave him alone. It may be because he's property of the kitchen, and no one really fucks with the kitchen. Hell, for all he knows it's because half of them think he belongs to Jensen and they aren't stupid enough to get in his way. As he puts on clean sweatpants and a t-shirt, he wonders if he has become the type. And if so, how?

He lines up with Rich and Misha to get his breakfast, then follows them to their weekend table with his tray. Even eating in the canteen is different, out in the open, no privacy, just on display with everyone else. Not a time for deep conversation. He watches with amusement as Rich and Misha pretend to fight over a cup of yogurt.

"That's mine, asshole."

"You don't even like blueberry."

"It tastes less of ass than peach."

"You would know."

They fall silent, and Jared looks up to see why. Jensen. Standing there awkwardly with his tray, chewing on his lip, eyes looking between them. Before Jared has a chance to say anything, Misha pushes out a chair with his foot and nods at it. The corner of Jensen's lips pulls up ever so slightly and he sits down, adding his tray to theirs on the table. Rich looks at Jensen like he's a tiger about to leap at them, a smelly tiger in need of a wash, but when Misha puts the cup of blueberry yogurt in front of him, he keeps his mouth shut. If only everything was that fucking easy all the time.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, not entirely unpleasant, not entirely at ease. It's difficult to tell how four guys, at least two of whom do not seem to have any issues letting whatever they have on their mind fall from their lips in most situations are suddenly unable to come up with a safe topic of conversation. Finally, surprisingly, it's Misha who manages to break the tension.

"We should make tacos next week."

All three of them look at him, and Jared hides a smile in his cup of coffee. Misha looks perfectly comfortable, as if this is how he spends all his mornings. Discussing recipes with friends, and would-be enemies turned maybe-friends.

"Really, Mish? Work talk on a Saturday?" Rich shakes his head, but he visibly relaxes a little.

"I like tacos," Jensen muses, "remind me of home."

Jared stares at Jensen as if he just confessed to having a leather fetish. Jensen meets his eyes and shrugs. It is only a little bit sad that that is the most personal admission Jensen has ever made in front of him.

"I think we have some taco shells somewhere in the other cupboard," Misha continues, completely unfazed.

Rich spoons up his yogurt, glaring at Jensen whenever Jensen isn't looking. Okay, so they have a long way to go, but if you had told Jared he would be eating breakfast with these three even one week ago, he would have laughed. Progress. It's nice to have friends, maybe Jensen is coming around to the idea after all. With a little bit of luck, Rich might be too.

"Would be cool if we had a radio or something in the kitchen," Jensen says, seemingly a thinly veiled attempt to keep the conversation going.

"Yeah? So you can blast Rammstein and give everyone a headache?"

"Was thinking more along the lines of Rolling Stones, but hey, whatever floats your boat, man."

Rich raises an eyebrow. "You listen to the Rolling Stones?"

Jensen hums in agreement, then starts humming that same tune Jared has heard a dozen times, whenever Jensen is doing something that doesn't involve 100% of his concentration. Or maybe whenever he tries a little harder to annoy Jared. It seems to be Jensen's go to hum.

"Play with fire!" Rich exclaims, pointing his spoon at Jensen with enough enthusiasm that a small glob of yogurt flies over the table.

Jensen smiles, and it looks genuine and Jared can't help but smile, too. None of the hit man, dangerous vibe comes off of Jensen now; he looks so fucking normal, it's like he's been looking at a picture of Jensen this whole time and only now getting a three-dimensional view. This Jensen he would like to drag into a cupboard and show just exactly how much he enjoys him. 

"Play with fire?" Misha asks, frowning as if he's trying to remember something. "That sounds familiar."

"Well you've got your diamonds, and you've got your pretty clothes," Rich starts singing, and Jared wonders distantly if he stepped into a parallel universe. He has a nice voice.

"And the chauffeur drives your car, you let everybody know," Jensen adds, not quite singing, but definitely too melodic to be considered speaking. 

Maybe the song sounds vaguely familiar. Regardless, Jared is more amused at the two of them hitting it off. Even if he doesn't understand why Jensen is trying at all. Perhaps the however many years he has spent here mostly in isolation - not counting his brief friendship with Misha - were less fun than Jensen had tried to paint them. People are social creatures, even people in prison. Maybe.

They get rid of their trays, and for a moment, Jared hesitates, unsure if he should follow Rich and Misha to the gym or if he should stay with Jensen. What does Jensen even do on weekends? Plot his next murder? Orchestrate a hostile takeover? Fortunately, the decision is made for him.

"You wanna press some weights, Ackles?"

Jensen seems as taken aback by Rich's offer as Jared, but he recovers quickly and nods slowly. "Might as well. No point getting sloppy."

"That's what I said to Jared."

Jared rolls his eyes, falling in step with Misha, trailing after Rich and Jensen towards the gym. Working out right after breakfast is probably not the healthiest approach to working out, but with a breakfast as pitiful as what they are served on the weekends, it is unlikely to do any damage.

Rich and Jensen head for the benches, and after a brief exchange of words, Rich lies on the bench, Jensen standing behind him.

"Did you put a spell on him or something?" Jared asks Misha.

"I told him to give Jensen a shot. He hasn't ended your life yet, and I think he's making an effort." Misha heads for the boxing bag in the corner gesturing with his head for Jared to follow.

"And you're not even a little bit suspicious about this effort?" Jared holds onto the bag as Misha stands in front of it, fist raised, thinking for a moment before he punches the bag hard enough that Jared struggles to keep his footing. Jesus.

"Maybe. I just don't think there is much to gain from us. Hell, maybe you broke him. Maybe he got tired of being alone all the time."

Another two punches. He had never considered Misha weak, but he was grossly unprepared for the amount of force behind every punch he throws. "So what, we're gonna be the four musketeers now?"

"That's cute. I'll be Aramis."

"Of course you will," Jared mumbles. He holds the bag until Misha is panting, thin sheen of sweat covering his chest and shoulders, face flushed. When he looks over, he sees Rich and Jensen have swapped positions. From where he is standing, he can see the muscles in Jensen's arms pulled tight, long fingers curled around the bar, Rich hovering above him, hands under Jensen's ready to catch the weight should he drop it. He doesn't.

"Swap with me?"

Misha nods, takes Jared's place, and Jared is more than a little pissed when his first punch doesn't even sway Misha. Maybe he really is more out of shape than he thought. That won't do. He puts some effort into it and the frustration starts flowing from him, leaving him with every punch, every huff of breath. Pent up tightness exploding out of his fist, leaving him a little lighter, a little more focused. 

"Relaxing, hm?" Misha smiles, peeking around the bag to wink at him. 

"Where'd you learn to punch like that?" Jared asks, taking a moment to catch his breath. Sweat trickles down his back, cooling in the dip of his back, pooling in the waistband of his boxers, heart pounding but he feels oddly alive.

"Combination of channeling some anger and Rich teaching me how to do some actual damage to something other than myself."

"He really was a professional fighter?"

Misha hums, fingers stroking down the bag as his eyes search for Rich. "He's got some tricks. Hasn't had a real need to put them on display in a while."

"I would guess that's a good thing."

"It is." 

They watch Jensen and Rich for a while in silence. For two people who wanted nothing to do with each other, they look incredibly relaxed and at ease together. Rich puts another weight on each side of the bar, and Jensen says something that makes him smirk. 

"Should we be worried?" Jared wonders out loud.

"Always."

They eat lunch together, Rich and Jensen discussing different fighting techniques, Misha and Jared talking about past vacations they have taken. Misha has been to a surprising amount of places. Jared has never left the US. It had never really felt like missing out, but it's odd to feel the magnitude of the world while he's confined to a space it would take him no more than five minutes to walk from one end to the other. So much he would like to see; fuck, he really hopes he'll get a chance one day. 

The rest of the afternoon passes without much excitement. They hang out in the rec room for a while, playing board games. Turns out Jensen has a competitive streak, and when he beats them all at Monopoly, his smile is wide, genuine, and Jared can't resist. He squeezes Jensen's knee under the table, and warmth spreads through him when Jensen's smile lands on him and he doesn't pull away.

When they are back in the canteen for dinner, Jensen doesn't join them in the line, instead, he walks over to the guard on duty. This time, Jared is close enough that he catches some words of the conversation.

"It's a big ass prison, man," Jensen mumbles, "why here? Why now?"

"I'm not in charge of the logistics, Ackles." The guard sounds bored, but something about the way he is standing suggests he is paying attention and isn't entirely at ease with Jensen's obvious disagreement.

"Can't you do something? I'll make it worth your while."

The guard snorts, shakes his head. "Someone else already did." With that, he walks away.

Jared can see Jensen grinding his teeth, fists clenched, making him think that in any other situation Jensen would not have just let it slide. Jensen hadn't struck him as the type to hold back ever, but the lopsided power dynamic is forcing him into a different type of behavior. He joins them in the line, and then at their table, but his mood has clearly soured.

Rich ignores it. Jared decides to do the same. Misha... does not.

"What's going on, Jensen?"

Jensen blinks, once, twice, eyes on his plate. The corners of his mouth pull down as he seems to wrestle with whether to answer or not. The lack of blatant dismissal more than a little concerning. The table falls silent, and Jensen sighs.

"Fuck, I guess... I might as well tell you. So at least it won't be... you won't be... _fuck_." Jensen pushes his plate away from him, leans back in his chair. "I'm sorry, man," he says to Misha, voice flat, exhaustion heavy in each word.

"Ok, worried now," Rich says, looking between Jensen and Misha. "What the fuck is going on?"

"They're making some... changes," Jensen says, carefully measuring his words, assessing how they land before continuing. "It's part of a reshuffle of sorts. Doesn't really have much to do with us, or C-Wing in general. But we will be affected by it."

"Uh-huh," Misha nods, hand brushing against Rich's on the table as if he's unconsciously looking for support.

"E-Wing is over-crowded," Jensen continues, rubbing a hand over his cheek. "Too many inmates who should not mingle with the normal population. So they are redistributing some of them, hoping that by spreading them out over all other cell blocks the negative impact they will inevitably have can be minimized."

Jared is torn between amazement that Jensen knows all of this, and an unpleasant clench in his stomach. Whatever is coming next, he knows with complete certainty that it is not going to be anything good.

Jensen chews on his bottom lip, his frown deepening. "One of the ones assigned to our block is, one of the guys who..." his voice trails off and he presses his lips together.

Rich and Misha are frozen in place, but it takes Jared a second to catch up. Just a second, until he sees Misha's face drained of all color, sees Rich's expression harden and freeze. Oh. _Oh._

"Fuck," Rich hisses, slamming his hand on the table. None of the inmates around them even look up, just another noise in an opera of noise. "Fuck, Ackles, can't you do something?"

Jensen looks as if he would like to be anywhere else but at their table, eyes darting to the side.

"You tried," Misha says, and Jensen nods. "Thanks."

"When?" Jared asks. His appetite has left him as well. 

Jensen's frown makes him look older than Jared thinks he is. "Monday."

There isn't enough air in the room; Misha looks twitchy, like he would quite like to leave the table and not have anyone look at him anymore for the foreseeable future. Rich looks as if he would enjoy breaking some concrete with his bare hands. Jensen looks at the table, uncannily silent and still. None of them say anything else, because there really isn't anything else to say. Jared would like to say something comforting, add something positive to allow them to get back to the easy company they were slowly growing. The words don't exist.

On their way back to the cells, Rich hangs back, waiting for Jared and Jensen to catch up as Misha continues without him. He ducks his head towards Jensen, Jared falling back a step behind them.

"I want him dead. Can you make that happen?"

Jensen's jaw clenches, and the muscle next to his eye twitches. "Not before he's moved here."

"Ok. Tell me what you need."

"Need you to talk to Misha about this before you put out a hit."

"Fucking... Jensen, he's not gonna-"

Jensen stops walking, looks down at Rich, eyes cold, determined. And completely detached. "He says go, it's done."

Rich grinds out a sigh, but nods. "Ok. I'll talk to him."

Jared and Jensen are locked in their cell, and Jared's skin feels too tight. He was a witness to a hit being put out. To be executed by an actual hit man. Who he enjoys getting naked with. Who he's had some nice thoughts about for longer than he cares to admit. Who's got more blood on his hands than Jared can ever hope to close his eyes to. Fuck.

"If you're gonna freak out, can you do it quickly?" Jensen leans against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. 

Jared stays by the bars, back turned to him. "Are you really going to..."

"If Misha wants him dead, he's dead."

"Why?"

"Why?" Jensen asks, incredulously. "You think he deserves to live?"

Jared turns around at that, "Why is it your decision whether he lives?"

"It's not," Jensen shrugs. "It's Misha's. I'm just... means to an end." 

The words are spoken as flippantly as if he's explaining that rain is wet. 

"How many people have you killed?"

The side of Jensen's left eye twitches again. "In here or in general?"

"Fuck." Jared runs a hand through his hair. This... this was a little too much reality. A little too much opening up, and not the kind he had in mind. The abstract knowledge that Jensen is a murderer, fine, that he could deal with. Apparently. Not the issue here. Jensen killing someone in the riot, ok, self defense. Jensen stabbing him? He's made up his mind that that was just another mind game, no truth to it. The guy in the kitchen? That had come close. But this, watching a negotiation over someone's life that was as simple as placing an order for a Big Mac with large fries... he swallows, tries to press down on the panic that bubbles up in his throat. What the fuck is he doing? Getting off with Jensen, fantasizing about what else they could do, playing board games with him and smiling and-

"Hey," Jensen snaps, arms curled around Jared's biceps as he shakes him. "Spit it out."

"You scare the shit out of me." Jared's eyes widen, surprised by his own admission.

Jensen immediately lets go of him, but he doesn't move away. His eyes fix on a spot on Jared's chest. He takes a deep breath. "You choose today to get on board with self-preservation?"

"It was convenient to forget you're a hit man before you rubbed it in my face."

"Misha told you."

"Don't even think about being pissed at him. You told me about what happened to him."

"I'm not pissed at him," Jensen says, words clipped. "You think I would agree to kill someone for him if I was pissed at him?"

"What, you think that makes you Robin Hood or something? Murder the undeserving? How many of the people you killed outside deserved it?"

Jensen tilts his head. "It's subjective."

Jared tries to cling to a shred of illusion, tries to rationalize the truth. Maybe there is a difference, maybe there is some moral high ground. He really needs there to be a difference just so he can close his eyes at night. But the fucking ease with which Jensen negotiated, makes the hair on the back of Jared's neck stand up. "I'm not helping you hide any bodies."

"You really think I need help?"

Jared is going to say something, he really is. Some snappy remark to let Jensen know he is not ok with any part of this, but Jensen is looking at him like that, and he wants that, wants to hold onto this thing between them, consequences be damned. It melts away his resolve, anger seeping out of him as he grabs the back of Jensen's neck and kisses him. It is all kinds of wrong, but the feel of Jensen's lips on his own sparks something that bulldozes everything else to the side and all he can think about is that he wants more, closer, _now_. 

Jensen kisses him back hard, demanding, hands fisting in the back of Jared's shirt pulling him closer. Frustration on his lips and Jared licks it away, teeth sinking into the softness of Jensen's bottom lip. "You really do scare the shit out of me in every way," Jared breathes, leaning his forehead against Jensen's and he's too close, can count the freckles, the heavy eyelashes almost brushing his own. 

"Right back at ya," Jensen whispers. 

The lights turn off around them, and Jared uses the relative obscurity of the cell to push closer, press his hips against Jensen's, feels the hard length of him against his hip, and they are wearing entirely too many clothes.

"Want you," Jared gasps in between kisses, fingers curling in the shorter hair at the base of Jensen's neck, "want you so fucking bad."

"Want me to what?" Jensen's thigh presses between his own, grinding, delicious friction making the thoughts in Jared's head swim.

"Want you to fuck me." It's as sure as he has ever been about anything.

Jensen moans against his lips, soft vibration making Jared shiver. "Fuck, Jay."

"Please." Jared pushes, pulls, desperately trying to get closer, hand slipping under Jensen's shirt, mapping out skin he wants to taste, feel move against his own.

"Wait," Jensen says, pulling back, hand on Jared's chest holding him in place as Jared tries to close the distance between them. "Not like this."

"What?"

Jensen looks a little flushed, but certain. "Not after this. You're freaking out. So Imma need you to take some time to think about whether you want this, me, including all the ugly bits, or if you just want to forget about everything for a while."

"Jensen-"

"Jared," Jensen says, voice steely, that tone that tells Jared there is no point in trying to argue. "I've done some shit I'm not proud of. Not necessarily the things that would come to mind, but still. I refuse to be your next regret."

"I won't-"

"Tomorrow. If you still feel the same way tomorrow." Jensen frowns, leans in and very lightly brushes his lips over Jared's. It takes the sting out of being asked to wait, the weight of what Jensen is saying in that small gesture, and Jared finds himself swallowing his next words.

"Ok."

"Ok."

Jensen steps back, doesn't take his eyes off him, and it grounds Jared. For once, he can tell what is going on, and much as he wants to just give into this need building inside him, the fact that Jensen wants to slow them down now means more than if he had simply gone along with it.

He waits for Jensen to finish getting ready for bed, and when Jensen sidesteps him as he makes his way to the sink to complete his own bedtime ritual, it is not the same as usual, it is not intentional avoidance. It's intentional something, but not something bad. When Jared is in his bunk, eyes heavy with the whole day, Jensen's quiet voice is the last thing he hears before drifting off to sleep.

"Night, Jay."

*

Realistically, there was no way Jared's Sunday was going to be spent in any other way than anticipating what Sunday evening may bring. A night's sleep did nothing to rid him of what he wants, if anything, it added to the rationalization of why. Morally, he shouldn't. Logically, he shouldn't. Realistically, he is going to go through with this come hell or high water. He's being pulled in different directions and the council in his head can postpone the focus group on just how fucked up Jared is to get hard for someone who kills with his bare hands and doesn't mind making casual jokes about that.

He wakes up too early, pleased that it affords him the ability to prepare for what is no doubt going to be a challenging day. Jensen doesn't talk to him until they're in line for breakfast, Rich and Misha a bit further ahead of them.

"Did you get any sleep?"

"I did," Jared replies, watching the spoonful of eggs dumped on his plate unceremoniously. "You?"

Jensen shrugs.

They join Rich and Misha at their table as if this is their normal routine now, as if this is just what they do. Misha is more quiet than usual, not looking up from his plate at any point, and Rich looks more tired than Jared feels. Good times all around.

He wants to know, wants to ask if Rich talked to Misha and what he said, but the absence of further murder negotiations suggests that whatever talk they may have had did not go as Rich wanted. Misha gets up before any of them to get rid of his tray, leaving the three of them to sit in uncomfortable silence that is somehow marginally less uncomfortable than a moment earlier.

"He said no," Rich finally says, barely contained anger evident in all three words. "Says it's not up to him to make a call on someone's life."

Jared had not really expected otherwise, but now that it's out in the open, he shares some of Rich's frustration. Why _wouldn't_ Misha want to have the guy die? At least one of them. The one that is scheduled to become their new neighbor tomorrow. No, he is not on board with murder or with Jensen executing said murder, but it would maybe... fix something. Somehow. Restore a sense of balance or justice.

"Ok," Jensen says, settling the conversation with one word, finality coming through loud and clear.

"It's not ok," Rich grinds out, a pleading look thrown Jensen's way. "We don't need this shit, he doesn't need this shit."

"Not up to you or me," Jensen shrugs, and Jared is a little bit proud of his response. 

"What do you think is gonna happen when that asshole comes waltzing in here tomorrow?" Rich says, voice picking up volume, anger mixed with something tinged more fleeting. Fear.

"We'll deal with it," Jared says, but Rich ignores him.

"What do you think is gonna happen if I do it anyway after he said no?" Jensen chews his cereal slowly, eyes fixed on Rich. There is something immovable about his expression, some resolve, like someone who knows he is doing the right thing.

"Make it look like an accident..." 

Jensen rolls his eyes, snorts. "Just how stupid do you think your boy is, Speight?"

"We can just avoid him, at least during the week," Jared offers. "We'll be in the kitchen, he... he won't be. Right?" He glances at Jensen for confirmation.

"They're not going to let a ticking time bomb with a short fuse in the kitchen, no," Jensen agrees. 

"Yeah, let's spend the rest of our days playing hide and seek with that son of a bitch in a cell block with 80 other cons," Rich says, "who's to say he's not going to decide to finish the job once he sees Misha?"

"I don't think they intended to kill him."

Jared blinks at Jensen's casual admission. Fuck, this is his friend they're talking about.

"People change their mind. Maybe he'll think Misha will talk."

Jensen purses his lips, eyes flitting from side to side as if he's turning the possibility over in his head, assessing its probability. "I don't think this guy has that kind of ambition. Or intellectual ability."

"Would you risk your own life on that?" Rich snaps, eyes searching the canteen for Misha as if talking about it has him worried about Misha's whereabouts.

The inmates around them are starting to leave the canteen, spreading out as far as the confines of the block will allow them. Jared misses the kitchen. He's grown to feel safe behind the shelves, surrounded by counters and food and people he knows.

"If he's a threat," Jensen starts slowly, measuring his words, "not if _you_ think he's a threat. If he's actually going to make a move, I'll take him out."

Rich looks as if he has another response ready but he swallows it, nods once. They move from the table to put their trays away and Rich disappears. Probably to go find Misha.

Jensen turns to look at Jared. "I got a visitor."

"Your lawyer?"

"No." Jensen holds his gaze for a moment, but he doesn't elaborate.

Jared wants to ask, question sitting heavy on the tip of his tongue, but something holds him back. Pushing Jensen has not worked out well for him so far. He seems to get more information by not pushing at all. "Alright, I'm gonna go find a new book to read."

Jensen nods, and that's all the see you later he gets. He watches Jensen walk away, finds himself suddenly alone. It has been a while. Instead of heading for the rec room he opts to step outside, get a little bit of sun with a side of nicotine. It's warm already, despite the early time of day. The sun beats down on him, and he's instantly too warm in his sweatpants. He's acquired a new pair, slightly thinner than the other ones, but he misses shorts. Shorts and drinks with ice cubes in them. Hell, he'd be delighted with just a glass of ice cold water.

He stands off to the side by himself, appreciating a relative moment of quiet. None of the other inmates pay much attention to him other than a few cursory glances. It's a pleasant change from his first few days. When he finishes his cigarette he goes back inside to the rec room. He looks around worn copies of books, some of which he's never heard of. He picks up some old Western looking paperback. Not like he spends a lot of time being entertained by his reading material anyway. The TV in the rec room is showing a basketball game, and he stays for a while, leaning against the wall in the back so he can see everyone else in the room. Most of the inmates are fully occupied by the images on the screen, even the guards only scan the room every few minutes. The normality of it all drives him back to the canteen around lunch time, and he steps outside again to find Misha and Rich sitting at one of the picnic tables. 

Misha notices him and gives him a half-wave, indicating for him to join them. Rich doesn't look back to see who Misha's looking at; not as if the options are plentiful.

"Where's your boyfriend?" Misha asks, smiling brightly at Jared, and if it's a little thinner than usual, Jared doesn't comment.

"Visitor. Not his lawyer apparently."

"Intriguing," Misha says, stretching his arms over his head. "Let's go see what fresh torture they have prepared for lunch." He starts walking toward the door.

Rich is still staring ahead of him, through the chain-link fence, faraway look in his eyes, as if he can see past the horizon and is trying to figure out how to get there.

"You ok, man?"

Rich startles, as if he hadn't noticed Jared standing next to him. "Yeah. Sure. Fucking sunshine and daisies."

Rich brushes past him and Jared sighs before following him inside. This is going to be an interesting week. 

The lunch rush has already started, and from his spot in the line, Jared finds Jensen sitting at their table, one fist balled on the table top, leaning back in his chair, looking for all the world like his usual indifferent self. But something is off. They join Jensen a few moments later, but Jensen immediately gets up.

"What's up?" Jared asks, his hand almost reaching for Jensen's arm, pulling back quickly when Jensen glares at him.

"Not feeling well," he mumbles, walks off quickly.

"Fucking hell, is this shit contagious or something?" Jared says quietly as he sits down.

They eat in silence, and spend the rest of the afternoon in silence. Misha and Jared read a book in the canteen, Rich pretends to read but every time Jared looks up, Rich is either looking at Misha or glaring a hole into the wall. Dinner is much the same, and Jensen does not make a reappearance. Jared steals an apple, the best he can do, but he figures Jensen must be hungry. He nods goodnight at Rich and Misha before he's locked into his own cell. It takes him a second to locate Jensen, who is sitting behind the bunk beds, in the narrow space between the headboard and the wall. His legs are stretched in front of him, hands in his lap. He looks limp, as if someone shot him and he sagged down against the wall as life seeped out of him.

"I got you an apple," Jared says, placing the apple on Jensen's pillow, within easy reach.

"Thanks." Jensen replies, voice hoarse, sandpaper against Jared's skin.

He hesitates before sliding down against the wall until he's sitting opposite Jensen, his right leg lightly brushing against Jensen's. "Bad visit?"

"Fuck off, Jared, I'm not in the mood."

"I thought no one but your lawyer came to visit you."

"Yeah, me too." Jensen rubs a hand over his face.

The curiosity is a living thing under Jared's skin, but it's not entirely curiosity for the sake of wanting know anymore. Whatever has Jensen this... off has to be something significant. He lets the silence stretch around them, waiting for Jensen to volunteer something else. Not like he has anything better to do than sit here and watch the time tick away.

It's several minutes later - no way of telling how many - when Jensen breaks the silence, making Jared jump. He'd half figured Jensen had nodded off.

"The person who... outbid me," Jensen starts, swallowing before continuing. "He's... part of a bigger problem."

"Uh-huh," Jared says, even if he has no idea what that means. His therapist is into "active listening". He finds it does make it easier to keep talking, so maybe Jensen will be inclined to do the same.

"Fuck," Jensen exhales, pulling one knee up to his chest. "It's been six fucking years, you'd think people would let things go."

Let what go? Jared tries to piece together the tidbits of information, complete the puzzle, but he's missing all the edges and he has no idea what the picture on the box looks like, no idea what he's supposed to turn it into.

"I... who?"

The lights turn off around them, and with it, Jensen's willingness to talk.

"Never mind. I'll figure it out. Don't worry about it."

"Are you in trouble?"

"Usually."

"Can I do anything?" The words sound empty to his own ears, but he still means them. It's unnerving to see Jensen off balance, distracted, particularly when Jared isn't the source of that distraction. 

Jensen shakes his head, goes back to looking at his hands, but Jared can see his mind working itself into exhaustion. He stays on the floor for a while longer before it gets too uncomfortable. He gets up to brush his teeth and wash his face, and Jensen stays in his place. He's still there when Jared pulls himself onto his bunk. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep, the drama of the day catching up with him and luring into a light sleep. The thought of what they had planned to do that night the last conscious one he has, but it does not stretch into his dreams. He dreams of New Orleans, of walking in the street, getting a coffee. It feels as if he's looking for something but he's not sure what, or why.

*

Sometime during the night, he's pulled from his dreams by a pained gasp, followed by something that almost sounds like a sob. He opens his eyes to the pitch dark, heart beating loudly in his throat. Fuck, was he making noises in his sleep again?

"Chris."

No. The harsh whisper comes from below, followed by a rustle of sheets and heavy breathing. He leans over the edge of the mattress, careful to keep his balance so he doesn't go tumbling to the floor headfirst. The light filtering in from the corridor is just enough to cast some shades over Jensen, stretched on his back, one fist balled up by the side of his head, the other curled in the sheet. His eyes are squeezed shut, thin sheen of sweat covering his chest, the side of his neck, muscles standing out as if he's straining against something. Another gasp jerks Jared into motion, and he slides off his bunk quietly, landing on the floor with a soft thud that is still a bit harsher than he intended. The shock of the cold concrete and the impact of his weight travels up his spine, hiding the world in darkness for a few seconds.

He sits on his knees by Jensen's mattress, unsure of what to do. The last thing he needs is to startle Jensen, draw out a scream, or a punch to the face. Carefully, gently as he can, he brushes his fingers over Jensen's shoulder, pressing a little harder when Jensen doesn't react.

"Jensen?" He whispers, shaking lightly.

Jensen's eyes blink open, no other part of his body moving, no scream, no nothing, as if someone turned on the lights but left everything else undisturbed. His fingers close around Jared's wrist like a vice before Jensen's eyes find his in the dark.

"What?" Jensen whispers, his other hand in the sheets pulling them up slightly.

"Nightmare," Jared says, offering what he hopes is an apologetic smile. "Thought I'd better wake you up."

"Oh." Jensen licks his lips a few times, then realizes he's still holding Jared's wrist and lets go. "Sorry." 

"You alright?" His hand remains on Jensen's shoulder, squeezing softly, and Jensen must be half asleep still if he doesn't notice, doesn't pull away.

"Peachy," he replies, voice dry, gravelly. 

"You want me to uh..." Jared lets his voice trail off, unsure of where it was going but deciding it was safer to stop before he got there.

Jensen raises an eyebrow. "Want you to hold me tight while I fall back asleep?" 

His words lack their usual punch, the sarcasm diluted into something that is still oceans removed from sincerity, but also not quite as close to mockery as usual. Jared turns to face him a bit better, amused as Jensen's eyes widen in alarm.

"Sarcasm, dude. Don't even think about it." 

"Think your bunk is too small. I need to ask Rich and Misha how they fit."

"I think you know exactly how they fit," Jensen smirks, eyes flitting down to Jared's lips on the last word for just a second.

It's encouragement, whether or not it was intended as such. What better way to take someone's mind off of a bad dream. Jared smiles, leans up on his knees so he can hover over Jensen.

"What are you doing?"

"Jensen," Jared breathes, brushing his lips over the stubble on Jensen's jaw. "Shut up."

Jensen huffs out a breath that sounds like annoyance before grabbing the hair at the back of Jared's neck and pulling him back a little so he can look at his face. Both of them are hidden in shadows, but Jared's eyes have adjusted to the dark enough that he can make out Jensen's eyes searching his face for something. Whatever he's looking for, he either finds it or doesn't when he kisses Jared, tongue insistent, licking into his mouth sloppily and Jared moans softly against his lips. 

Jared's hand drops to Jensen's chest, cool sheen of sweat under his skin, Jensen's heart thrumming under his fingertips. Jensen pulls at his shoulder, trying to get him closer, one foot flat on the bed so he can push closer to Jared. 

"Fuck," Jared whispers, breaking the kiss for a moment so he can lean back and pull his shirt off. Jensen's fingers trace up his arm, over his shoulder, down his chest, leaving goosebumps in their wake. When he reaches the waist of Jared's boxers, he hooks his fingers in and yanks, pulling Jared over him.

His knees are still on the floor, arms braced over Jensen's head, chest to chest and it feels intimate, as if the world outside their bunks has been frozen, far away from them. His nose is inches from Jensen's, warm breaths mingling, something settled in Jensen's eyes, as if he made a decision and now he's just following along with it.

"Get up here," Jensen whispers, lips pressed to the corner of Jared's mouth.

Jared doesn't need to be told twice. He crawls up on the bunk, Jensen's legs free from the sheets, parting for Jared to settle between them. Jared holds his weight up for a moment, but Jensen's patience has clearly run thin. He hooks a leg over Jared's thighs and pulls him down, lips crashing together again, sharp nips, slow licks, and fuck, Jared could do this all night. Just lie here, pressed down against Jensen, tasting him, feeling every inch of him stretched beneath him. 

Jensen seems to share the thought, hands sliding down Jared's back, pulling him closer, hips arching up against Jared's when Jared sinks his teeth into Jensen's bottom lip and pulls. Jensen's hard, pressed against him, and Jared grinds down against him, seeking out the friction on his dick that makes his skin tingle, makes the hot air around them cling to him.

"Fuck, Jensen."

Jensen hums against his lips, fingers dipping into the back of Jared's waistband, pulling him tight against him. "Thought you wanted me to fuck you?"

Jared breaks the kiss, tracing his lips down the side of Jensen's neck, tasting sweat, soap, Jensen. His brain tries to focus on the words Jensen said, but it's difficult when all he wants to do is get closer. "I, yeah... I do. I mean..."

"Points for coherency," Jensen chuckles, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against Jared's lips. "Never done that before, hm?"

No. He hasn't. And it's not that he's averse to the idea, quite the opposite, but part of him wants to take it one step at a time and stick with something relatively familiar. The other part of him is happy to let Jensen do whatever the fuck he wants, so long as it involves the two of them naked. "No," he says, voice muffled against Jensen's skin.

He swears he feels the ghost of Jensen's lips in his hair, barely pressing against his head. "Next time." He pulls his other knee up too, letting Jared settle further between his legs. The thin fabric of their boxers the only thing between them, but it's still too much. 

Jared slides a hand down Jensen's side, over his ribs, into the dip of his hipbone. His lips follow lazily, kissing, licking across Jensen's collar bone, down his chest, thumb rubbing over a nipple. Jensen hums, hand on the back of Jared's head holding him in place. Jared moves further down, over the thin line of hair leading down to Jensen's boxers. His skin is soft, warm under Jared's lips. He pulls one side of Jensen's boxers down over his hip, grazes his teeth over the sharp hip bone, sinking his teeth in ever so slightly, pleased at the muffled sound it draws from Jensen. 

Jared leans back as well as he can without hitting his head on the top bunk, taking a moment to appreciate Jensen, spread out before him, legs tangled in the sheets, smooth skin and smoother muscle, lips parted, hair messy from where Jared raked his hands through it.

"What?" Jensen asks, keeping his voice low. He blinks at Jared, eyes dragging up Jared's chest, settling on his lips.

Jared just shakes his head, tries to shake the fog in his head away with it, but there is no shaking off of this feeling. He pulls Jensen's boxers down, Jensen lifting one leg at a time to let Jared pull them off. His dick is hard against his stomach, but Jared ignores it. Jensen spent weeks teasing him, slowly pushing at him until they got to this point; he'll be damned if he's going to rush into anything now. 

He maps out Jensen's skin, slowly, inch by inch, learning from Jensen's gasps, the way his breathing speeds up, a soft moan. He kisses the crease of Jensen's leg, the inside of his thigh, biting softly, earning another sharp exhale from Jensen, hands fisting tighter in his hair. This he can do, tease, take someone apart slowly, until they forget where they are. It's what Jensen has been doing to him for weeks, with words, looks, and everything left unspoken. It's what Jared can do with his hands, lips, tongue. With the day Jensen's had, Jared wants to be the one to do that, to push some of that darkness that has been hanging around Jensen away, even if only for a moment.

The bunk is too small for both of them, and his back is not going to thank him tomorrow for contorting himself in a position that allows him to stay on the bunk, but bend down far enough that he can trace his tongue over Jensen, hands following, soft strokes, stronger squeeze of his fingers. 

"Jesus, Jared," Jensen whispers, body arching, trying to get more of Jared's touch, more of his tongue where he wants it. "Such a fucking tease."

Jared lets his tongue poke at Jensen's balls lightly, then a little harder, pang of heat going straight to his dick when Jensen groans, hips reaching. He leans up a little, grabs Jensen's dick in his hand, tongue licking up to his head, lapping away precome gathered at the tip. When he looks up, Jensen's head is back, throat working, and he smiles before closing his lips around Jensen and sliding down, taking as much as he can before Jensen hits the back of his throat.

Nothing really could have prepared him for how much he enjoys sucking cock. Or maybe just Jensen's. Jensen's just so damn responsive, coming alive in his hands, but it's different from anything he knows. Jensen doesn't wait, isn't patient, he's a tight grip in Jared's hair and insistent moves of his hips. Jensen takes what he wants, and it tightens something low in Jared's stomach that he can, could easily pin Jared to the mattress and take what he pleases. Jensen feels strong and solid under him, and for once, Jared isn't afraid of being too rough, of accidentally hurting the person he's with. He tightens his lips around Jensen, alternating between a slow drag of his lips and quicker ones, teasing licks to the underside of Jensen's dick. His eyes water whenever Jensen hits the back of his throat, he tries to swallow around him, Jensen's hand still in his hair, not pushing, but there all the same.

He reaches one hand down to squeeze Jensen's balls, and Jensen's hips stutter, breath caught in his throat. 

"Fuck, fuck, Jared stop." Jensen pulls him off, breathing ragged, fingers tight in Jared's hair.

Jared rests his cheek on Jensen's thigh, feels the muscle quiver and clench. 

"Want you to fuck me," Jensen says, and Jared closes his eyes, swallows thickly. Fuck, if Jensen keeps this up he's going to come without even taking his boxers off.

"Ok," he breathes out.

Jensen reaches over his head, under the mattress. Jared follows the movement but makes no move to lift his head off Jensen's thigh. A small jar of lube and a condom are placed on Jensen's stomach.

"How the hell did you get a hold of lube?"

Jensen raises an eyebrow, a perfect picture of incredulous. 

Jared snorts, shaky fingers reaching for the lube. He realizes he has no idea what he's doing, not really. Guess he'll learn on the job. He dips his fingers in the jelly, feels Jensen's eyes on him and he decides he would really like Jensen to go back to being borderline incoherent and not entirely focused on him. He licks up Jensen's dick, fingers trailing further down between his legs, tentative brush over his hole. He teases the skin, Jensen's dick twitching in his mouth, then pushes one finger in. 

Fuck, tight squeeze around his finger has his dick perk up in interest. He pushes in further, stroking inside Jensen, curling his finger up a little, Jensen's hips pressing down on him, trying to get more. There's not enough space or balance for him to suck Jensen down while working his finger, so he settles for working his finger in and out of Jensen slowly, licking at his dick.

"More," Jensen whispers, voice strained.

Jared pushes a second finger in with the first, scissoring them, finding a spot inside that has Jensen bite down on his fist around a strangled sound. He speeds up his fingers, looks down to see what he's doing, amazed at the sight of his fingers disappearing inside Jensen. He squeezes in a third one, tries to do his best to not break Jensen in two. The vice-like grip on his fingers has him concerned this is not going to work, is not going to fit. In the same breath, just watching his fingers, hearing Jensen's soft moans have him harder than he can stand, and ready to throw out any reservations.

"Fuck, Jared, just fuck me."

His hear thumps insistently against his rib cage, blood rushing South. He gently pulls out his fingers, wipes them on the sheets. He nearly topples off the bunk in his hurry to pull off his boxers, then reaches for the condom. 

"Today," Jensen whispers, urgency lacing his words, feet hooked around Jared's back pulling him closer. 

Jared rolls the condom on quickly then holds himself up with one hand by Jensen's head and lines himself up. He nudges against Jensen, and Jensen jerks him closer, frustrated sound falling from his lips.

He pushes in slowly, and it is nothing like he daydreamed about. Jensen is tight, hot, fucking amazing around him, squeezing him to the point where he doesn't think he can fit without splitting Jensen in half. 

"Fuck," he gasps, every muscle in his legs, his stomach screaming as he holds himself from pushing all the way in. 

"Come on," Jensen says, hands pulling at Jared's shoulders. 

He eases in slowly, every inch of delicious warmth enclosing him, shivers of pleasure running up his spine. He pushes until he's snug against Jensen, and Jensen pulls him down, breathes against his lips, tries to kiss but it's more of a messy lick over Jared's lips as he tries to get closer. 

"Fucking _move_ ," Jensen whispers against his lips. 

Jared pulls back slowly then pushes back in, both of them groaning and Jared muffles the sound by pressing his lips to Jensen's again, swallowing all the delicious sounds he's making. He sets a slow rhythm, pushing deep as Jensen clenches around him, pleasure curling in his stomach, radiating all the way to his toes, to his fingertips. Jensen meets him with every trust, fingers tangled in Jared's hair as he devours Jared's mouth, pressing every inch of their skin together until Jared can't tell where he ends and Jensen begins. 

"Fuck, Jay, been wanting you to fuck me since you walked into this cell."

Jared picks up speed, teeth nipping at Jensen's throat.

"Wanted you to bend me over these fucking bunks and fuck me, make me scream."

His skin is too tight, too hot, and he thrusts harder spurred on by Jensen's words.

"Come on, don't hold back, fuck, not made of fucking glass."

The bedsprings squeak underneath them, bed frame rattling, but he stopped caring about the noise a while ago. He angles his hips and Jensen bites down on his shoulder, hard, and that's it. He tumbles over the edge, white hot heat spreading from his belly to every part of him, devouring him as he comes deep inside Jensen, hips jerking erratically as he groans into Jensen's skin, metallic washing over his tongue. 

He reaches between them, fingers curling around Jensen, and two quick pulls has Jensen coming between them, eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead, his temples, and Jared leans down to lick up the tiny droplets.

Every sound drowned out by their breathing, his skin quickly cooling down as he pulls out of Jensen slowly, swallowing the gasp on Jensen's lips. Jensen hisses against him arms locking around Jared's neck keeping him in place.

They kiss lazily, and Jared really wished they were anywhere but in this cell. Anywhere where he could stay right here, sleeping wrapped around Jensen, come cooling on their skin, a perfect picture of normalcy. 

"You alright? Jared whispers, hand stroking over Jensen's chest, settling over his heart.

"Fuck off," Jensen snorts, running his hand down Jared's spine.

"Such a charmer."

Jensen shifts his leg, tries to shift some of Jared's weight off him, and Jared pulls away, sits back reluctantly. 

"Gonna need you to quit staring at me like that," Jensen whispers, but there is no heat behind his words.

He's about to throw back something cheesy, but he doesn't want to break the spell just yet. He pulls off the condom and ties a knot in it, sets it on the floor. His mind is trying to come up with words, something to say, something that would elicit the desired response but he's not really sure what he's hoping for here. Maybe some reassurance, but the fact that Jensen hasn't kicked him out of bed yet is more reassurance than anything he could say. 

"Hey," Jensen whispers, knee nudging against Jared's side. "Quit thinking so loud. Go to sleep." He pauses for a moment, lips pressing together. "Big day tomorrow."

Jared winces, fuck he'd almost forgotten. No, he _had_ forgotten. "Ok."

He maneuvers off the bunk, hand brushing over Jensen's thigh, muscle tense under his fingertips, but Jensen looks... comfortable. "Night," Jared whispers, then leans down to pick the condom off the floor to flush it.

"Night."

*

Jared has never been more relieved that the next day is Monday. Five whole days for the bruise on his shoulder to heal before he has to be around anyone other than Rich and Misha. And Jensen. Of course he fully expects Rich to comment, and he's not disappointed.

"Damn it, Nemo, you lost me a pack of smokes. I really thought you were gonna last three months," Rich smiles brightly from his place under the shower. He glances behind Jared at Jensen, unsure for a moment, but when Jensen pays him no attention, he continues. "Mish, well done. You've got an eye."

"Hold on, you gave me _less_ than three months?" Jared asks, stunned.

Misha shrugs, rinses the shampoo from his hair. "It's a talent."

Rich chuckles, and Jared decides to follow Jensen's example and ignore both of them. They are running a little late so he hurries more than usual, not that he ever really is allowed to take his time. He feels Jensen's eyes on his back while he pulls on a pair of clean clothes, and his cheeks heat up a little. Fuck, he's behaving like a schoolgirl with a crush. He throws Jensen a tentative smile on their way to the kitchen, surprised when Jensen winks at him in return. Yeah, definitely not what he expected.

In all honesty, none of his expectations regarding Jensen have panned out, so in that sense, it is consistent at least. The fleeting edge of something dark, something intangible remains, but it doesn't unsettle him the way it did before. He has a few more puzzle pieces, and with it a little bit of a clearer picture. He may have been quite mistaken about what he's looking at.

In the kitchen, the anticipation hangs thick in the air. Even if it's knowledge only shared by the four of them, it throws off everything else around them. Even Murray has appeared from his usual dish washing activities in the back of the kitchen. When he senses the tension, he purses his lips and swings back around on his heels. Smart. Jared would like to hide too from whatever trouble is barreling towards them.

Jensen and Rich serve breakfast, both of them scanning the line of inmates and the canteen from their slightly elevated position behind the serving counter. Both of them looking for the new arrival that is due today. Even if Rich has no way of knowing what he's looking for, he probably has everyone's face memorized to the point where he would pick out an unfamiliar face among the mess of inmates. Jared looks as well, realizes he recognizes quite a few faces, even if he can't match most of them to names. All of them he sees every day, all the time, and yet he's hardly spoken more than two words to anyone outside of the kitchen. In a sense, he's still as clueless about the dynamics of prison as he was on his first day. Sure, it's easy to spot the gangs, the groups, the people that tend to stick together and the ones that dance around each other, never crossing paths. But to see how it all fits together... he doesn't have the patience, doesn't know what he's looking for. He didn't notice the build up to the riot until around the time he got stabbed, at least not without Rich and Jensen pointing out what was obvious to them.

Maybe it's because he's engrossed in his own little game of who's that con, maybe it's because he's not scanning with the same intensity as Rich and Misha, allowing his eyes to brush over the inmates unfocused. Jared spots him before they do. Near the back of the line. He's tall, not as tall as Jared, but definitely as tall as Jensen. Longish dirty blond hair unruly on his head, tight set to his jaw. He seems to radiate danger, somehow, violence. Don't mess with me in invisible neon quivering around him, implicit warning that the other inmates seem to pick up on intuitively, gravitating away from him. This does not look like someone lacking the ambition or intelligence to kill a liability. Not at all.

Jared glances over at Rich and Jensen, but they're still looking over the canteen. Fuck. Jared moves across the kitchen towards them, nearly marches into Murray who's balancing a large pot of coffee and nearly drops it at the unexpected collision.

"Fuck, Padalecki, watch where you're going."

"Sorry, sorry," Jared says, helping Murray stabilize the dispenser before turning around to find he's too late. He walks closer quickly, no plan in his mind but purpose to his steps all the same. The newcomer is in front of Rich and Jensen, cold blue eyes devoid of mirth fixed on Jensen.

Jared frowns, and Rich looks confused for a moment. Jensen mumbles something at Rich under his breath, and Rich relaxes.

"Ackles," the newcomer grins, the corners of his mouth sharp, harsh, voice pleasant, too upbeat and out of place. Jared would almost believe the encounter was a pleasant surprise, if Jensen didn't look as if he was trying to decide whether to leap over the counter or run out of the kitchen.

"Pellegrino," Jensen replies, holding the stranger's gaze as he dumps a spoonful of eggs on his plate.

"Fancy running into you here."

"Yeah, you seem surprised." Jensen's mouth is a thin line of displeasure, eyes narrowed. "Wanna move it along? You ain't the only one who's hungry."

Pellegrino tilts his head, purses his lips in amusement. "Mmm, if you say so. I'll be seeing you around."

Jensen rolls his shoulders, and from where Jared is standing he sees the white-knuckled grip Jensen has on the counter. "Count on it." 

Pellegrino moves along, and Jared joins Misha in the back of the kitchen where he has laid out for plates of breakfast at the table. He's fidgeting with a sugar packet, trying to fold it into something. Jared joins him, sips his coffee in silence as he waits for Rich and Jensen to join them.

"I said don't fucking worry about it," Jensen says, as he takes the seat next to Jared.

Jared raises an eyebrow in question, but Misha doesn't look up from his... bird? Star?

"Newbie," Rich explains, sitting down next to Misha, hand disappearing under the table instantly. "Not the newbie we were looking for, but apparently he knows Jensen."

"Another transfer?" Jared asks.

"No," Jensen replies as he keeps his eyes on his plate. "Fresh meat."

"How does he know you?" Rich asks, ignoring his breakfast in favor of studying Jensen for clues. "Pellegrino, what even is... is that Italian or something?"

Misha looks up sharply, meeting Jensen who seemed to expect Misha's reaction. He holds Misha's gaze for a moment longer before responding. "Probably. I don't know. Just someone I knew a long time ago."

"It seemed a bit more hostile than someone you used to know," Rich observes, clearly intent on not letting it go.

"Leave it alone," Misha says, shaking his head slightly at Rich. Rich's eyebrows raise, but he swallows his next words.

How the hell does Misha seem to know what is going on? That is all that will be said on the matter. Misha changes the subject to food, and Jensen joins him, seemingly relieved at the change of topic. Jared watches them quietly while he eats, thoughts loud in his head, curiosity mixed with just a tiny hint of jealousy. He doesn't like this unspoken connection the two of them have; the intimate knowledge they have of each other's past, or as intimate as can be expected given the circumstances. Not for the first time, he wishes Jensen would just fucking tell him things so his mind wouldn't have to keep filling in the gaps of everything he doesn't know.

He cleans up with Rich as Misha and Jensen start on lunch, and there is no part of him that doubts the split was by design. Neither Misha nor Jensen seem to want to entertain any more of Rich's questions or Jared's curious glances.

Rich remains on edge, loud, jerky movements, absence of his usual chatter. He looks for all the world as if he's readying himself for a fight, preparing for the person they are waiting for to make an appearance. Jared leaves him to it, content to be left in silence with his thoughts, even if they are spiraling just a bit.

Lunch passes uneventfully, and Rich is starting to relax slightly, as they eat in the kitchen, when the lighter atmosphere shreds.

"Guys! Got one more hungry inmate here," a guard shouts, and all four of them tense. They look over in unison, Rich and Misha's view of the counter blocked by the shelf, but Jared and Jensen can see around it.

Jensen gets up before anyone else can, and Rich makes a move to do the same when Jensen's grip on his arm pushes him back down. "I got it," Jensen says.

He walks up to the counter, nods at the guard and the man standing next to him. There's nothing noteworthy about the inmate, greasy black hair brushing his shoulders, scruff on his cheeks, big arms and angry-looking tattoos, a languid smirk painted on his face. Jared chokes back a spike of hatred. This pathetic piece of shit hurt Misha. Rich is practically vibrating next to him, anger, rage, murderous intent radiating off him.

"Meat, fish, veg?" he hears Jensen say, and if the inmate recognizes Jensen, he shows no indication.

"Fish," the inmate smiles, voice hoarse, smoked-through. 

Jared is distantly aware of Misha giving a twitch next to him, but he can't look over, doesn't want to see what hearing that voice may do to Misha. It's too much, too intimate, and not his to see.

Jensen puts the correct sandwich on a tray along with an apple and a carton of juice. The inmate doesn't respond, just takes the tray and turns around to find a table. The guard lingers by the counter, and Jared hears a low rumble of Jensen saying something to him, but it's too quiet for him to make out the words. The guard shrugs, walks off.

Jensen doesn't return to their table, and Jared doesn't want to be there any longer. Maybe it's selfish of him to bail, but realistically, just what is he going to contribute here. He picks up his tray, throws Rich a glance, but he still cannot make himself look at Misha. He joins Jensen at the counter.

The few bites of sandwich he ate sit heavy in his stomach, and he throws the rest of it in a nearby trash can. Jensen is following the new inmate with his eyes, his face blank, but there's something about the way he is standing that makes Jared feel warm inside. Something not unlike Jensen's quiet offer to kill the inmate if he becomes a problem, and the absence of any doubt in Jared's mind that Jensen would not hesitate. Jensen is in their corner, somehow. And Jared was right, it is definitely much safer to have Jensen as an ally than an enemy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for this chapter: discussion by perpetrator(s) of past rape/sexual assault that could be considered triggering. It is only a few lines but I'd rather warn for it. Also one homophobic slur.
> 
> Many thanks to Candygramme for catching my mistakes, the ones that remain are mine.

It has been less than 24 hours, and Jared is fairly certain someone is going to die in the near future. He really hopes it isn't anyone he knows. Or more specifically, anyone whose company he enjoys. Overnight, the kitchen has become its own little pressure cooker, simmering around meal times, when it feels like they may as well be gearing up to enter a boxing ring. The time in between, it's as if everyone is holding their breath. Rich is angry, and he's probably going to stay angry for the foreseeable future. He's a ball of misdirected frustration. Too much negative energy to keep contained, with very little options for letting it out. Not that he doesn't try to get rid of some of it; he slams Murray up against a fridge when Murray comments on how wonderfully the Brady Bunch is getting along, and can't they all just fuck and make up. Rich is balled fists, muscles strained in his neck, voice spitting words, and for once, Misha is not there to pull him back.

Misha has been a surprise. Jared thought he might be upset, quiet, brooding in that way Misha gets sometimes, but just, more. Somehow, for whatever reason, he thought as Rich grew explosive, Misha would withdraw. No such thing. He looks restless, caged, but not entirely in an anxious way. He's distracted, hyped up to the point where Jared is half-convinced someone is putting something in his coffee. He's too energetic, uncharacteristically loud, constantly moving, like a river refusing to be dammed. For the most part, he stays in the back of the kitchen, but when the canteen clears he paces around restlessly, adjusting chairs, tables, busy all the fucking time in a way that is making Jared nervous. It may be making Jensen nervous too.

Jensen is... alert. There is no other way to describe it. He's like a tiger pacing up and down the length of his cage. Jared has not seen him relax for an instant, not since yesterday. Not that there is anything obvious about his demeanor, but Jared has spent enough time watching him to notice all the little things that are off. When he serves food, his eyes move around, cataloging, filing things away. He's quiet, barely speaking to anyone, too caught up in watching, and Jared would say he is the only peaceful, calm presence in the kitchen maybe, if he wasn't paying attention. He knows Jensen did not sleep at all last night, maybe did not even close his eyes. It was evident during the night from the sighs, the rustling of sheets. Today it is evident in the paleness of Jensen's skin, and the slight puffiness under his eyes.

Rich has been serving with Jensen, so Jared isn't sure if Pellegrino has said anything else of interest. The son of a bitch from E-Wing, Robson, he has no idea what is happening there either. Rich is still with them, so he must be diligently serving meals to the guy, or maybe Jensen...

It's giving Jared a headache. He feels useless, can't really do anything for anyone, and he has a suspicion that even if he tried, he would only make it worse. No one is waiting for him or expecting him to save the day. He tries to keep to himself and out of the way, letting his thoughts take over, but they pull him in every possible direction. Jensen hasn't said much to him, although it doesn't seem intentional as such. In fact, Jared would be amazed if Jensen was capable of doing more than the bare minimum at the moment; work, stay alert, breathe.

Sometime before dinner, Jared's attention is drawn to someone new in the canteen. Someone who doesn't belong there. It's a minor disruption but there is no real change to the monotony of his work space, so anything different is instantly noticeable. It's Pellegrino, in the middle of the canteen, with a mop and bucket, looking for all the world like he belongs there. Guess he does now. Fuck.

Jared looks around, and sure enough, Jensen has already spotted him. He's at the counter, rearranging things, wiping serving trays, throwing leftovers and spilled food in a garbage bag next to him on the floor. He's not looking down at what he's doing, eyes fixed on Pellegrino, and yet all the food ends up in the garbage even without him paying attention. Jared lingers in the back, glancing over occasionally from the vegetables he's cutting.

It takes several minutes and the lone guard in the canteen leaving, but then Pellegrino saunters up to the counter, dragging the mop behind him leaving a wet trail on the linoleum floor. He kicks a few chairs out of his path, lets the handle of the mop slam into some others and he pauses a few feet in front of the counter.

"C'mon Jen, you got nothing to say to me?"

Jared steps closer, hidden behind the shelves, but he has a good view of Pellegrino and Jensen's back from behind pots and pans.

Jensen stops what he's doing, hands braced on the counter. "No, I don't."

Pellegrino tilts his head to the side, smile stretching his cheeks. "Not quite the warm welcome I was expecting."

"Yeah, well, you were always a bit delusional that way."

Both of them keep their voices low, but Jared is close enough that he can hear them easily.

One of Pellegrino's hands runs up and down the mop handle lazily as he observes Jensen, and Jared really doesn't like the look in his eyes. Predatory. Evil glint to cold blue, hinting at a potential desire for destruction. "But I got so much to catch you up on, since the last time we spoke." He licks his lips lazily. "So much I'd like to tell you about."

Jensen's fists tighten on the counter, but the tone of his voice stays the same. "I bet you do. Always with the talk. I guess that was your downfall in the end."

"You know why I'm here, don't you?"

Jensen straightens up, arms folded over his chest, and Jared can imagine the smirk on his face. "Sure. You're here to do the dirty work no one else can be bothered with. My, my, how the mighty have fallen."

Pellegrino's grin doesn't falter but Jared doesn't miss the flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "I prefer to think of it as taking out the trash. And make no mistake, I requested the opportunity."

"That's what I'd tell myself if I became dispensable."

Pellegrino chuckles without mirth, a sound like icicles rubbing against each other. "I'm going to enjoy this, Jen. Gonna make you suffer in ways you can't imagine. You think you know pain? Boy, you don't know what's coming. I'm gonna make your fucked up childhood look like an extended vacation to Disneyland."

Jensen leans in over the counter, hands flat on the glass. "Bring it."

"Pellegrino! Get your ass back to work." Dugas enters the canteen, eyes flicking between Jensen and Pellegrino, and with a pang, Jared realizes Dugas looks nervous. Shit, whatever leverage Jensen used to have over Dugas seems to have transfered to Pellegrino.

"Sure thing, boss." Pellegrino winks at Jensen and returns to his bucket, whistling through his teeth.

Jared retreats to the back of the kitchen before Jensen turns around and catches him eavesdropping. His thoughts are racing, trying to make sense of the new information. The things that stand out are Pellegrino is a threat, and what exactly happened when Jensen was a kid? Jared's not an idiot. He figured Jensen hadn't grown up in a hunky dory happy home with bells and whistles, but the words still stay with him. They stay with him when he stands next to Jensen to serve dinner, and he realizes he really doesn't know a damn thing about Jensen at all.

By the time they are taken to their cells, Jared is starting to feel the weight of all the concrete surrounding him to the point it may as well be sitting on his chest. It's not that he ever forgets where he is, it's more that he's created a bubble of comfort around himself, lured himself into a version of reality where he's just a normal guy with less than ideal living arrangements, but with a job, and people he likes to work with. It's an easy trap to fall into, and it makes the time pass, so he lets himself fall. Not faster, it just makes it pass instead of standing still. With his surroundings out of whack, the reality becomes that much harsher. There is no running away from it when he doesn't really have anywhere to run to.

The restlessness crawls under his skin like bugs. The closing of the bars behind him rattles up his spine, bouncing around his skull. He's itching for something to do, somewhere to go. Wishes he could go to the gym and punch the boxing bag, channel everything into fists and leave it there. Hell, he'd give up quite a few things in exchange for a cold beer and a plate of food that didn't come out of their kitchen. If only he had some things to exchange or someone to bargain with.

"What's up with you?" Jensen eyes him curiously, leaning against the wall heavily, as if it's the one thing that separates him from slipping to the floor.

"Nothing," he shrugs. Nothing that Jensen can do anything about, anyway.

"You know it's impolite to eavesdrop."

Jared's eyes widen, but he shouldn't be surprised. Fucking Jensen probably has eyes in the back of his head. "If you have private conversations in public spaces people are gonna overhear."

Jensen hums. "Nothing private about it."

"Who is he?"

Jensen opens his mouth but Jared interrupts, bored of the company line.

"Someone you knew, yes, thank you. Knew from where?"

"We used to work together," Jensen says, hand scratching at his cheek. "Long time ago."

"So why does he hate you?"

"He doesn't... hate me, necessarily. We just never got along."

Jared leans back against the bar, iron pressing into his back solid, grounding him a little. "Seemed like it was a bit more than that."

"Yeah, it probably did."

Jared rolls his eyes. "Why can't you just tell me something?"

"What do you want to know?"

Where to fucking start. "What was your life like before you got here? How does this guy fit into everything? Who is Chris?"

He can see Jensen's jaw tighten from where he's standing, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides. Too fucking bad. They have come a bit too far for Jensen to still play coy and keep Jared away from anything that matters.

Jensen doesn't turn away, doesn't get in his face, pushing anger and resistance to Jared's prying. He just stays in place, considering. He must be really tired then.

"Why do you care so much?"

Jared snorts, shakes his head. "You let me fuck you, and you wonder why I give a fuck?"

"Cute. You got regrets or something?"

"Why do you have to avoid every fucking question I ask you?"

"Fine. My folks died when I was little. Sort of. I was in and out of foster care. I'm sure you can imagine how wonderful that was."

"Why do you need me to imagine? You can," Jared gestures awkwardly "tell me things, if you want."

Jensen turns so his back is against the wall and pulls up a knee to rest his foot against the wall too. "I ain't telling you no sob stories."

"Why did you become a hit man?"

"I owed someone a favor."

"And then what, you just made a career out of it?"

"Easy money," Jensen shrugs, sighing at Jared's pissed off expression. "It was supposed to just be a one time thing. But I was good at it. My eh, services, became notorious. Demand increased, and I just kinda didn't stop."

"And Pellegrino?"

"Worked for my main client. We sometimes worked a job together, but he's," Jensen looks around the cell as if the right words are hiding somewhere between the bricks. "Messy. Unprofessional. He's a hothead with a fragile ego, and he lets his emotions spill into his work."

If you take out the murder, Jensen may as well be talking about an admin job he had once upon a time. "Guess that's not... a good quality to have for someone in that line of work."

"Definitely not. I refused to work with him anymore after his temper almost got us killed. He got prissy when his boss took my side."

"So now he's here, and he wants to get even?" Seems like a lot of trouble for someone to go through over a slight. Not to mention after however many years.

"Yeah, something like that." Jensen pushes away from the wall, cocks his head at Jared. He rubs a hand over his stomach, drawing Jared's eyes down to the lazy motion. "C'mere."

Jared's foot takes a step without his consent, automatic pull at the low sound of Jensen's voice, brushing against his skin, pulling at invisible strings. "You don't play fair."

Jensen hums in agreement, closes the distance between them, head back slightly to look at Jared. "I prefer to make up my own rules." His fingers trail over Jared's arm, up to his shoulder, digging into the muscle and pulling him down.

The kiss is hungry, hard, like everything else about Jensen. Jared's hand comes up to sit on Jensen's hip, the other hand on the back of his head, pulling him closer. Jensen's lips are insistent, tongue licking into Jared's mouth. Jensen's pushed tight against him as if he's trying to melt them together. He tastes of the apple juice he usually drinks with his dinner. Jensen's hands come up under his shirt, cold hands feeling like heaven on Jared's overheated skin. Jensen's teeth sink into his bottom lip, sharp sting of pain only making Jared want more, closer, now.

He's painfully aware of how many clothes they are wearing - too many - and how exposed they are with the lights still on. Jensen doesn't seem to notice, or care.

"Jensen," Jared gasps against Jensen's lips, dizzy from the feel of Jensen's hands on him, breath fanning over Jared's face. "Lights."

"They'll go out in a minute." Jensen's lips move to his neck, tongue dragging lightly, leaving wetness that catches the cold air running through the cell block.

"You got an exhibitionist kink I don't know about?"

Jensen's hand is on his back, fingers dipping into the waist of Jared's boxers. "'S not the only kink you don't know about."

Blood rushes South, and his dick twitches in his boxers. Fuck, he wouldn't mind finding out about some of those at all. Both of Jensen's hands are on his ass, squeezing, pulling him close, his dick grinding against Jensen's through their sweats. Jensen spins them around, pushes Jared against the wall, hands fisting in his shirt, hips circling, pushing, chasing delicious friction that fogs Jared's mind until nothing exists other than Jensen. Jensen's teeth graze over his jaw, down his neck, warm breath on his too-hot skin. One of Jensen's hands squeezes between them, squeezes around Jared, and Jensen's lips cover his again swallowing Jared's moan.

"You don't seem that put off," Jensen smiles, squeezing his fingers. "You like knowing half the block can see you, hm? Want me to spin you around, push you up against the wall and fuck you slowly while you can feel all those eyes on you?"

"Fuck," Jared gasps, hips stuttering up into Jensen's hand, muscles in his stomach tightening. He tells himself he doesn't, not really, but the thought, the words are enough to have his head spin.

The lights turn off around them as if on cue, and Jensen's hands push down Jared's sweatpants and his boxers, letting his dick spring free. He curls his fingers around Jared and strokes lazily, watching Jared's face closely in the shadows.

Jared leans his head back against the wall, watches Jensen from heavy-lidded eyes, his eyes dark, black swallowing up the green. The corner of Jensen's mouth lifts knowingly, and Jared comes back to his senses. He fiddles with the string on Jensen's sweatpants, and, when it's loose, he pulls them and Jensen's boxers down too. Jensen doesn't hesitate, lines them up and grinds against him. The first slide of his dick against Jensen's rips a growl from Jared's throat. Fuck, it feels so deliciously hot, his hips have a mind of their own, and he can't fucking keep quiet as the pleasure sparks under his skin. Jensen's hand closes over his mouth, a warm, heavy weight holding him in place as Jensen rolls his hips.

He tries to say something, ask for more, please now, but Jensen shakes his head. "Shh," he smiles, hips keeping up a rhythm that has Jared breathe harshly through his nose. "You're gonna come, just like this. Got that?"

Jared nods, throat working as the pleasure builds low in his stomach, and his muscles pull tight enough that they start to tremble.

Jensen sounds a little out of breath, color washing into his cheeks for the first time all day, and his voice has a rough edge when he speaks again. "Just like that, Jared." He grinds his hips, leans in, so his lips brush over Jared's ear. "Come for me."

Like a rubber band, his resolve snaps as he comes messily between them, sounds muffled by Jensen's hand. Jensen is a second behind him, his release spilling between them, adding to the mess. Jensen's eyes have slipped closed, tension bleeding from his face. When he opens them again, he removes his hand from Jared's mouth and replaces it with his lips. They kiss lazily for a few beats, little finesse, freaking sloppy, Jensen's hips still pressed tight against his.

When he pulls back he chuckles low in his throat. "We made a bit of a mess."

Jared winces and looks down at the sticky mess between them. They pull of their shirts, Jared using his to wipe the come off himself, then tosses it in the corner with the rest of their laundry. Jensen follows suit, but he also slips off his sweatpants and boxers, adding them to the pile. He shivers in the cold air, bends over to grab clean clothes, treating Jared to a view of his smooth ass.

He lets his fingers trail down Jensen's spine, feels the bumps under his fingertips. Jensen straightens back up and turns around, amused smirk on his face. "Don't start something you're not gonna finish."

He laughs, shakes his head. Not tonight, he's beat. Jensen slips on clean boxers and sits down on his bunk. Jared considers him for a moment before he pulls off his own sweatpants and hops onto his bunk. He takes a few moments to get comfortable, enjoying the feel of the air conditioning on his overheated skin. All in all, not a horrible ending to a pretty shitty day.

*

"Fuck off, Rich, I'm not spending the rest of my days hiding in the back of the kitchen."

"I'm just saying, give it a few days so we can feel him out."

"I don't give a shit what you're saying. I'm not hiding."

"Why do you have to be so-"

In a flash, Misha has Rich pressed up against the wall, hand on his throat, anger flashing in blue. "You do not get to decide, you got that? Not you, not him, not fucking anyone."

Rich looks like he's struggling to breathe, but there is no way Jared is getting in between the two of them. He thinks Rich could push Misha off if he wanted to, but he's also fairly certain that would be the thing that would make Misha see red. "I'm not telling you what to do, Mish." His voice comes out strained, chin dipping down to allow himself to draw in shallow breaths.

Misha is shaking, one fist clenched by his side, the grip he has on Rich's throat too tight, Rich's eyes too wide.

"He's right."

Jared looks around to find Jensen standing behind him, eyes fixed on Rich and Misha. Rich's eyes flit to Jensen, but Misha doesn't respond. Jensen walks closer, past Jared, but keeping a few feet of distance between himself and Rich and Misha.

"If this guy is gonna do something, what's the use in delaying the inevitable. Might as well find out where things are now."

Misha's fingers relax, and Rich gasps, drawing in what must be much needed air.

"How about Jared and Misha serve breakfast, and you and I just pay attention, see what happens." Jensen looks over his shoulder, as if he's waiting for Jared's confirmation.

"Yeah," Jared nods, clearing his throat. "I'm down."

Misha rolls his shoulder and finally lets go of Rich. He takes a step back, and for a moment Jared thinks he may apologize, but instead, the silence hangs heavy in the air. "Good," Misha says after too many seconds. He doesn't spare Rich a second glance before walking over to the serving counter to start setting up.

Rich sags against the wall, his eyes sad as he watches Misha leave. He glances at Jensen, irritation evident in the downward pull of his mouth. "I'm just looking out for him."

"I know it feels that way to you," Jensen says slowly, his voice a little tighter than usual. "But all you're doing is making him feel like he's helpless."

"How the hell would you know?" Rich huffs, straightening imaginary creases out of his t-shirt.

It's a split-second reaction, Jared would have missed it if he hadn't been playing close attention. Something flashes over Jensen's face, knee jerk reaction he can't seem to control for the briefest of moments, before he schools his features back into indifference. But for a second, it's there, and it looks like the sound of a heart breaking.

Jensen swallows, then smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's the fake kind of smile Jared got so used to seeing his first few weeks with Jensen. Sugary sweet and two-dimensional, reserved for pissing people off and keeping them at a distance.

"Take my word for it."

Jensen leaves them alone, and Jared wants to go after him. Fuck, the implications of what Jensen said, or what he didn't say...

"You wanna take a shot too?" Rich grinds out, voice rough, defeated.

"You ok?"

"No, Jared, I'm not fucking ok." Rich rubs a hand over his throat, pushes his hair out of his face. "Just go."

Jared is more than happy to oblige. He grabs a tray and takes it over to the service counter, where Misha is angrily putting food in place. They work in silence for a few minutes, until the first inmates start trickling into the canteen. Jared glances at Misha, who stands next to him straight as an arrow, his features set in determination but there is a hint of defiance in the way his chin is held higher than usual, his eyes focused. It is going to be another long ass day.

Jared spoons out eggs, Misha adding bacon or sausages or some type of vegetable patty to the plates. It's a familiar routine, but they are both tense, waiting for their least favorite new inmate to show up. He's among the last inmates in line, shuffling forward, looking sleepy. Harmless. Fuck, appearances really are deceiving. If Jared hadn't known what he did, he wouldn't even have given the guy a second thought. He doesn't look like the other assholes in this place, the ones he knows take whatever the fuck they please from their cellmates. He looks normal, or as normal as any inmate does, and somehow that is more unsettling. He blends in, when Jared really wishes he'd stand out.

Misha has spotted him too, if the sharp intake of breath is anything to go by. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms that both Rich and Jensen are lingering behind them, pretending to do something at the counter, but both of them are watching the line. Jared looks around for a guard, just in case, though he really isn't sure what he's preparing for. If Misha is happy to get physical with Rich, and not in the sexy way, fuck knows what he's willing to do to this asshole.

The inmate is in front of them, lazy grin on his face. "Thanks," he smirks when Jared drops a spoonful of eggs on his plate. When he steps over to Misha, his eyebrows raise into his receding hairline.

"I'll be damned," he says quietly, looking Misha up and down slowly, in a way that makes the hair on the back of Jared's neck stand up. "I figured you'd be dead by now, _sweetheart_."

A commotion behind them, but Jared doesn't look, fairly sure it's Jensen holding Rich back to stop him from doing something stupid. He can hear Misha grind his teeth as he slops sausages on the inmate's plate.

"Surprise," Misha says, voice steady but it doesn't sound like him at all. It sounds wrong, devoid of anything Misha.

"And what a pleasant one at that."

"Move it along, asshole," the next inmate in line grunts, and Jared could fucking kiss the guy.

The inmate scowls, but he walks along, sparing Misha a look that makes Jared feel like he needs a shower. Fuck.

They finish serving the rest of the line, and as soon as the last inmate has his breakfast, Misha drops his spoon and walks away. When Jared turns around, Rich and Jensen are following Misha towards their table in the back, where four plates are waiting for them. Jared fully expected Misha to avoid them, but he sits at the table, glaring daggers at his breakfast.

They join him at the table, eating in silence, until Jensen speaks.

"Ok, so he didn't forget."

"It's fine," Misha shrugs, and Jared wants to shake him, tell him it's the furthest thing from fine.

"Mish-"

"I said it's fine," Misha says more forcefully, pinning Rich with his eyes. "I'm not going to shatter over some asshole, alright? Fuck!"

"Of course you're not. If he tries something," Jensen says, his voice calm, insistent. "Just say something, ok?"

Misha nods, lips pressed in a thin line. They eat in silence, and when they finish, Jared goes to prepare some vegetables for lunch by himself. Jensen is in the back of the kitchen, but after a few minutes, he walks up to the counter. A quick glance over the canteen tells Jared Pellegrino is wiping tables. Figures that this asshole would be assigned to work near them. Hell, if he's the one pulling the strings now, the bastard probably requested to work near the kitchen.

Pellegrino is singing to himself as he wipes tables, letting bits of food and plastic fall to the floor. Jared doesn't recognize the song, but he thinks Jensen might. Even from just looking at Jensen's back, he can see the tension, shoulders tight around his ears, movements a little too harsh, making a bit too much noise as if he's trying to block out the lilting sound of Pellegrino's voice.

"No more will my green sea go turn a deeper blue," Pellegrino's voice picks up as Jensen slams a tray back onto the counter.

"Keep your fucking voice down," Jensen growls, no longer paying attention to what he was doing, full attention fixed on Pellegrino.

"What's the matter, Jen? Thought you liked that song," Pellegrino yells back cheerfully, his back turned to the serving counter. "I sure have fond memories of it. Makes me think of you." He spins on his heels and winks at Jensen.

"How sentimental of you. Does it make you cry yourself to sleep at night, remembering a time you thought you were useful?"

Pellegrino tilts his head, a simple movement that reminds Jared so much of Jensen it gives him pause. "Nah, I think that's more your thing. Hey Jen, tell me, are you still scared of enclosed spaces or did prison shake you out of it this time?"

"I'm fine, thanks."

"Yeah?" Pellegrino moves closer, slow steps, lion stalking his prey, a quiet confidence in his movements as if he knows he has Jensen exactly where he wants him. "Six years by yourself and you're still here. I guess you found a way to remain at the top of the food chain." His eyes flick down to Jensen's lips before dragging back up.

Jared huffs out a breath. He has no idea what's going on, but it feels as if there is an entire implicit conversation going on in front of him, where no one says exactly what they mean, but both parties understand completely.

Pellegrino's eyes are drawn past Jensen, landing on Jared, mostly obscured by the shelves. His heart jumps up in his throat, cold blue eyes assessing him lazily, again, in a way that reminds him a little of how Jensen looked at him at first. Calculating. Even though every fiber in his body wants to turn around and escape the weight of that stare, he stands his ground, holds the gaze.

"Mmm," Pellegrino hums, refocusing on Jensen. "Wonder how you're gonna cope now that I took all your toys away. No more guards to bend to your will, Jen."

Jensen chuckles, folds his arms over his chest. "They were just window dressing. But by all means, Mark..." he leans in conspiratorially, and Jared can picture the smirk on his face without seeing it. "Give it your best shot."

Pellegrino nods, eyes drifting over Jared, before he turns around without saying anything else. As soon as his back is turned, Jensen looks over his shoulder to find Jared. Fuck. His cheeks flush, like a teenager who got caught peeking into the girls' locker room.

"Enjoying the show, Jared?" Jensen says, voice low, green eyes hard as glass, and Jared only just resists the shiver that threatens to run up his spine.

He winces apologetically and goes back to his tray. What else can he say? Yeah, he's really fucking interested in what Pellegrino has to say to Jensen, even if it's half-there information at best, and even if his imagination is kicked into overdrive trying to make sense of it.

"Damn it, Jared, the fucking potatoes." Misha pulls open the oven door, releasing a cloud of smoke. He pulls out the trays of burnt potatoes. "The fuck is wrong with you, man? You know how to set a timer."

"Shit. Sorry." He helps Misha scrape off the worst of the blackened potatoes, the smell thick in the back of his throat. He throws the ones that can't be salvaged into a trash bag.

"Too busy playing your spy games."

"It's not a game," Jared protests, tying a knot in the garbage bag to hopefully trap the smell.

"No, it's not. Fuck, don't get in the middle of that."

"What do you know about that guy?"

Misha pulls up his lip in an almost snarl, and Jared thinks perhaps he is not the cause of all of that frustration, but right now, he sure is the target. "Fucking _talk_ to him, Jared. I told you too much as it is."

"He won't answer any of my questions! Not really."

"Maybe you're not asking the right questions, or maybe you're just not listening to the answers."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean..." his voice trails off, and Misha has already left. He feels like an idiot standing by the counter with trays of questionable looking potatoes, somehow the current punching bag for everyone who can't quite pick at the real source of their heightened emotions. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He serves lunch with Rich, the only person who is not trying to take his anger out on him. The new inmate, Robson, is a little further down the line, and he seems to have made some friends. Two biker guys laughing with him as if they've known each other for years. Funny how quickly alliances form in an environment where every man is an island. It's a shitty survival strategy, yet also the best they've got. Jared is half expecting Rich to spit in Robson's food, do something, but Rich just watches. Maybe he's pushed his impulse of 'must murder' to the side in favor of trying not to piss off Misha any more than he already has.

"Well aren't you a tall drink of water."

Jared looks up to find Pellegrino in front of him, tray held out expectantly, a small smile playing around his lips. "Meat, fish, veg?" He tries to keep his face blank, but he's never been very good at covering up his emotions. It's difficult to press down the intense dislike he feels for this man.

"Meat," Pellegrino grins, nodding when Jared puts the sandwich on his tray. "Thanks."

Rich glances at Jared from the corner of his eye, but Pellegrino keeps walking. "God, Nemo. Can you just stop?"

"I'm not doing anything," Jared hisses, nodding hello to the next inmate.

"You're like a magnet for bad news."

As if he doesn't fucking know that. He eats lunch by himself, feeling very much like a high school reject, but fuck, the constant tension is making his temples pound a drum solo. For the first time since he started in the kitchen, he wishes he could escape it. Not permanently, just for a few days. Get some space and some time for himself, without people watching him and him having to watch people. Self-preservation did kick in after all, and it feels as if he's skating on thin ice.

"Why'd the jocks ditch you?" Murray sits down across from him, and Jared would be annoyed, but he's fairly certain he is the one sitting at Murray's usual table.

"Just want to eat by myself."

"Yeah, me too." Murray gives him a pointed look, but he doesn't say anything else to make Jared leave.

"Sorry, man."

"Don't sweat it. I'd want to avoid the drama too if I were you."

Yeah, except there is no avoiding anything. It's a bit like living in a condensed world, where everything takes less time. Friendships develop too quickly, fall apart even quicker. Carefully carved out stability knocked over by a mere breath, rippling through the kitchen, hell, maybe the whole fucking block. Like the riot. It's easier to recognize when it's played out right under his nose. He sticks with Murray after lunch because it seems easier. Even if loading and unloading dishwashers is a one man job at most, Murray doesn't comment, and he doesn't talk.

The whole kitchen is mostly silent throughout the rest of the afternoon, everyone working quietly, only the bare minimum of words exchanged. It's suffocating, thick in the air, and if Jared steps out twice to smoke a cigarette he'll chalk it up to having a bad day. At least no one follows him, trying to have another conversation that ends with him feeling like shit.

Misha joins him for the dinner service, and Jared notices the silence is getting to him too. He looks caged, like Jared feels. It's an odd look on Misha, sharp departure from his usual zen approach to life. Mostly. A few outliers here and there, but usually with good reason. Not that this is anything but a good reason to lose your shit a little. Hell, Jared hadn't dealt spectacularly well with Marcus's presence, and ultimately, Marcus really hadn't been that harmful. Still plenty to send Jared into a tailspin.

He thinks maybe, just maybe, their mood is contagious enough that the inmates lining up seem a bit more hushed than usual as well. Still loud, but not as loud as a typical dinner service. By now, he should know that nothing ever works out the way he hopes.

It starts with whispers that aren't trying to be quiet, a cackle. Jared's fingertips tingle, apprehension building under his skin. Robson and his new friends are inching closer toward them, nodding and laughing between them, pretending to keep their voice down but making sure they are easily overheard by those standing near them.

"I like a bit of a challenge," one of Robson's friends says, ugly smirk under a thick mustache. His long black hair is tied back with a bandana, and he looks like he needs a shower. "Give me a bit of a fight, y'know?"

"Not me, man," Robson shakes his head, patting the other, much shorter guy with them on the shoulder. "Sure, the feisty ones can be fun. But shit, if you get one who just fucking _takes it_."

Jared's blood runs cold, anger spiking white hot, jaw clenched to keep himself in place. He hears Misha breathing next to him, a little deeper, barely noticeable. Fuck, he wants to reach over the counter and stab the ugly fuck in his eyeball, slit his throat and watch him bleed out slowly, choking on his last breath. He wants to destroy, but he can't.

Robson's friends hum in agreement, hanging on his every word, and Jared's lunch threatens to make a reappearance. He distantly wonders where Rich and Jensen are, highly doubts they wouldn't be hanging around to see what happens, and, no, he doesn't need them to come save the day. Misha would probably throw a pot at both of them if they tried, but Jared isn't quick on his feet like they are. The right words don't just fucking come to him, so he stands there like an idiot listening to the filth spilling forth from the three assholes. And Misha... doesn't seem like he's going to say anything either.

"The very best, though," Robson continues, now in front of Jared and Misha, but he only has eyes for Misha. "The very best is when you get a screamer. God, the _noise_ some guys make when you take them apart."

"Only thing you're taking apart is the tendons in your wrist from trying to get it up." Jensen appears in between them, out of nowhere. "Both of you," he glances at Jared and Misha with disinterest, bordering on arrogance, "Dugas has an issue in the stockroom. Numbers don't add up. I'd go see what's up before he starts to think we're getting creative with accounting."

Jared gives a nod, eyes skimming over Jensen but not giving anything away as he turns on his heels and follows Misha to the back of the kitchen. Jensen sure is creative with his interventions; the thought that any of them would be in charge of any numbers other than counting how many cans of soup they have is laughable. Misha walks a few steps ahead of him, disappearing into the short hallway leading to the stockroom, leaning against the wall as soon as he is out of sight. His hands are trembling slightly, skin a little flushed, and his eyes are closed tightly as if he's trying to block out everything around him.

"Mish?" Jared tries, voice soft.

Misha shakes his head, doesn't look at him. He doesn't really want to leave Misha alone, but he knows he is about the least qualified person to be of help. Somehow, he tends to accidentally stumble upon the wrong words to say in his haste to fill a silence. He walks back into the kitchen, blinks in surprise to find Murray serving dinner with Jensen.

"Rich," he hisses, trying to keep his voice from carrying, not that it would be easy to hear him over the sound of a hundred or so inmates eating dinner.

Rich looks over from his place at the ovens, eyes widening when he sees Jared. He marches over quickly, pushing past Jared before Jared can even explain what happened. Fine. They'll figure it out.

Rich and Misha do not make a reappearance until the canteen is clear, all inmates locked in their cells as the kitchen crew finish up their nightly ritual of making sure every surface is clean, all the food put away, and any prep for the morning ready. It's a comfortable way to wind down the day, usually done in silence. Tonight, the silence is a little more forced than usual.

The two of them stick close together walking back to their cells, Jensen and Jared trailing behind them. Rich's fingers brush against Misha's every few steps, subtle, comforting gesture. When they're locked into their cell, Rich lets Misha enter first. Before following, he glances over his shoulder at Jensen. He doesn't nod, doesn't say anything, but the thank you doesn't need to be said to be evident. Jensen nods, once.

*

While Jared brushes his teeth, Jensen stays by the bars, one hand curled around the iron, his head resting against it. His shoulder are tense, his other hand balled by his side. When Jared is done, he pulls himself up on his bunk, sits on the edge with his legs dangling as he considers Jensen.

"Thanks," he finally says, breaking the silence and making Jensen tense slightly. "Fuck, I wish..."

Jensen hums. "Changed your tune."

"Huh?"

"Thought we didn't get to decide who lives, and who dies."

Jared's eyes follow the long lines of Jensen's back, the strip of skin revealed where his shirt rides up above the waistband of his sweatpants. Always gray. It's like they are permanently stuck in the uniform of a mental hospital. Never fully awake, always in the closest thing to pajamas. "I don't understand why Misha puts up with it."

Jensen makes a low sound of frustration, but he doesn't turn around. "He's not putting up with anything. What do you want him to do? Throw some gasoline on the fire?"

"Seems better than letting them get away with it."

Jensen sighs, tilts his head back at the ceiling as if he's praying for someone to give him patience. "How have you still not figured out that words are just fucking words? Yeah, they're cruel, fucking horrible, but they're not a reason to lose your life."

"I'm just-"

"He's not letting them get away with it," Jensen finally turns around, hand slipping down the bar but keeping a grip. "He's being smart. The only thing they hope to get is a reaction. Not everyone is an impulsive hothead like yourself, smashing shit to prove a point no one asked you to make."

"Kept my mouth shut, didn't I?"

Jensen rolls his eyes. "You want a participation trophy?"

"What are you gonna do?" He doesn't think Jensen would have stepped in if he wasn't concerned.

"Told you, not up to me to do anything."

"So we're just gonna sit back and deal with this from now on? Wait until Misha snaps?"

"Can you please quit talking about the guy like he's a poor little boy in need of saving?" Jensen's eyes flash dangerously as he finally lets go of the bar, crossing his arms over his chest instead. "He's been through worse. You think it was a fucking picnic for him after he was moved from that wing just because he didn't have to see them anymore? Cons talk."

"It's not the same."

"Maybe not. But you gotta give him some credit. He's a hell of a lot stronger than all of you make him out to be. Fuck, you treating him like he's fragile is what's gonna undo him. The day he starts believing it, it'll be over."

"Are we still talking about Misha?" He knows he overstepped the second the words are out of his mouth.

Jensen's face closes up, scowl twisting his features and somehow he manages to look down his nose at Jared even from where he's standing. "You sure that's a path you wanna go down right now?"

No. "Not like you would tell me anything anyway."

"I am not your charity case," Jensen says, every word like a scratch of ice over Jared's skin. "Misha," he points a thumb over his shoulder, "is not your fucking charity case."

"I didn't-"

"When it comes to things you don't know shit about, _Jared_ , I suggest you keep your pretty mouth shut and keep your thoughts to yourself. No one is interested."

Jared holds his gaze for a moment before the weight is too much. He can't stand to have Jensen look at him with so much cold indifference. He shakes his head and lies down on his bunk, glaring at the ceiling instead. Jensen stays by the bars after the lights go out, still there when Jared falls asleep, and when he wakes up a while later, a looming silhouette in the dark. His presence somehow loud in the cell, absorbing everything around him, leaving Jared's night restless.

The next day, he goes back to his new routine of staying out of everyone's way. Rich and Misha stick close together, Misha still jittery and annoyed, Rich a vision of calm now, quiet, just there as if he has no plans on being anywhere other than right next to Misha any time soon. Adding another layer of claustrophobia to what is already too tight of a situation. Jared doesn't know if any discussion took place, but Murray and Jensen serve breakfast, Murray seemingly unimpressed with his unexpected promotion, if the way he returns to the dishwashers as soon as the last inmate is fed is anything to go by. Jared eats with Rich and Misha, more out of habit than anything, trying to maintain a semblance of normality more than anything else. Jensen skips breakfast, busying himself with something in the stockroom instead.

"I'm not fucking kidding, Rich, go smoke, please, just... do something."

Jared glances over at Rich and Misha by the service counter. Rich hesitates, trying to catch Misha's eye, but Misha keeps his eyes on the counters he's wiping. Rich sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, but he nods.

"Ok, Mish, whatever you say." He walks off slowly, as if an invisible magnet is making it difficult for him to put distance between himself and Misha.

For a moment, Jared remains silent, but that feels as if he's treating Misha differently than he would usually. According to Jensen, not what he should be doing. "Hey Mish, how do I make tomato soup taste of something other than runny ketchup?"

Misha snorts, pauses to look over at Jared. "Garlic... pepper. Wishful thinking."

"Dear tomato Gods," Jared starts, making wooshy hand movements over the giant pot of soup simmering on the stove in front of him.

"Blasphemy," Misha clucks his tongue, swings the towel over his shoulder to join Jared. He peers into the pot, wrinkling his nose. "I'm not convinced there are actual tomatoes in there."

"Doubt it." Jared stirs, picks up the salt next to him. "Salt makes everything better." He shakes the tub over the pot with too much enthusiasm. The lid flies off, dumping the entire contents of the tub into the pot. His hand stays frozen for a moment, eyes wide as the tiny puddle of white starts melting into the orange liquid. "Oh fuck."

Misha laughs, an actual, honest to God laugh, and soup be damned, Jared will take it. He'll drop an entire fucking ocean into the soup if it makes Misha laugh. "It's gonna taste less of ketchup now I think."

"God, what the hell are we gonna feed them?" Jared looks around for a spoon, before grabbing a bowl instead. He ladles a spoonful of soup into the bowl. Putting it to his lips, he intends to take a sip, momentarily forgetting the liquid is burning hot from sitting on the stove for two hours. As soon as his lips make contact, the burn makes his grip on the bowl slip, and the entire bowl spills down the front of his shirt. "Fuck, fuck, fucking OW!" He pulls the thin fabric away from his skin, cursing himself for deciding to wear white. Of all the days.

"I gotta say, it doesn't add to the design of your shirt," Misha snorts, stirring the pot as if he can undo the damage Jared did. "A little too heavy on the crime scene vibes."

"I'm gonna go find a new shirt." Jared looks down at himself. "Try to salvage the soup?"

"I will do my best." Misha salutes him with the spoon, the flick adding some more drops of soup to Jared's shirt.

Jared walks out of the kitchen to the guard on duty. The guard rolls his eyes but lets him out of the canteen back into the cell block. He is never usually in the cell block at this time on a weekday. It is pleasantly quiet, only a handful of inmates standing around, some in their cells, the guards at their station on the second tier behind glass, not paying much attention. A couple of inmates lean over the railing on the top tier, and Jared realizes he rarely even looks up when he's in the block. Easy to forget there's a whole other set of cells up there.

As soon as he's in his cell he strips off his shirt and wipes the residual liquid off his chest. His skin is a little pink where the soup burned him, but he'll live. He balls it into a corner with the rest of his mountain of laundry, with their clothes very much in need of a wash after the other night. He's not had a chance to drop off his laundry in a few days, and when he looks at his little shelf holding his meager belongings he curses under his breath.

Great. No more clean shirts. It's not as if he can go back to the kitchen shirtless, and it is far too hot to wear a hoodie, especially if he can't unzip it. He stares at the bunks, weighs his options, when his eyes fall on the shelf behind the head of Jensen's mattress. It's a little bit intrusive, and part of him thinks he is making a grave error of judgment, but he's fresh out of options. Surely Jensen won't kill him for wearing one of his shirts. He looks over his shoulder, as if to confirm that Jensen isn't behind him, then reaches out a tentative hand to lift up the neatly folded hoodies and sweatpants. Jensen's t-shirts are at the bottom, and he opts for a black one, making a mental note to tell Jensen he will do his laundry for him. He grabs a shirt, and when he holds it up something falls out of it to land by his feet.

_Put it back._

His heart skips a beat, mind torn between running out of the cell and having a look; the damage is already done after all. He's just putting Jensen's belongings back out of sight. Also, if Jensen didn't want this to be found he should have hid it better. Somehow, he doesn't think Jensen will see it the same way.

He reaches down to pick up the fallen item, turns it over in his hand. It's a small stack of pictures, held together by a thin rubber band. His skin flushes, knowledge that he is overstepping a line making him feel all kinds of wrong, but his curiosity is stronger. And if he's completely honest, even if he were to put them back without looking at them, the temptation will stay. He slips the rubber band off, making sure his back is turned to the bars, so no one looking in can see what he's doing.

The first picture is faded, crinkled at the edges. It's a picture of Jensen, probably about a decade ago. His skin is smooth, hair longer than it is now, and the left side of his face is showing a purple bruise that does not make his grin any less wide. His arm is slung over the shoulders of a shorter man, with longish dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The other man's smile is just as broad as Jensen, even though his lip is split. It looks intimate, somehow. Jensen looking as close to carefree as Jared has ever seen him.

The next picture is much older, and it takes Jared a second to realize he is looking at the same men, except in this one, they are children. Early teens at most. They're standing side by side in what seems a grassy field, against the backdrop of a setting sun painting the sky pink. Their arms over each others’ shoulders. Jensen looks thin, bones poking through his stained shirt, jeans hanging off his hips equally filthy. The other boy is taller than Jensen in this picture, and Jensen leans against him heavily, as if the other boy is the only thing holding him up. Neither one of them is smiling in this picture.

The third picture is even older, Jensen looks no more than six, maybe seven. It's a close up, his face pale, freckles standing out harshly, but swallowed up by the discoloured skin of his face. Jared's eyes are drawn to his split lip, the bruises on Jensen's throat, and his stomach clenches. The other boy doesn't look much better, face next to Jensen, his eyes turned down as if he didn't want to be photographed.

Jared swallows past the bile in his throat. He doesn't need to see any more. He puts the pictures back in the same order, puts the rubber band back around them. His fingers tremble slightly when he lifts the clothes back up to put the pictures near the bottom of the shelf. It takes him a moment longer to gather himself enough, put the pictures, the implications of the pictures, aside, so that he can minimize the damage of the spectacularly stupid thing he just did.

It's no use. He's so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost forgets to put his stolen shirt on before exiting his cell. He catches himself just in time, and slips the soft shirt over his head. It smells of Jensen. It makes him feel like betrayal.

One thing is clear. He cannot lie about the shirt, but maybe he can lie about the pictures. If he's up front about the shirt, makes it out like it's no big deal, maybe Jensen won't guess. Just play it cool, he's got this.

He finds Jensen in the stockroom, putting boxes of rice and pasta from a large crate onto the shelves.

"Hey," Jared says, voice hoarse. He leans against the door frame and clears his throat. Keep it cool, nothing happened.

"Ok," Jensen responds, not looking up from his task.

"So, I'm an idiot, and I spilled a whole bunch of soup on myself, so I went to change my shirt, but I haven't done laundry in days, and I didn't have one, and I stole one of yours, and I'm sorry." He gets it all out in one breath, then bites his lips to stop any more unnecessary explanations spilling out. He'd read once that liars get caught, because they say too much; have an explanation for everything when it's unwarranted. People who tell the truth make mistakes and don't have an answer ready for everything.

Jensen pauses, looks at him, confused frown on his face. "So we're sharing clothes now, hm?"

"I'll wash it."

Jensen narrows his eyes, considering him for a moment. "Yeah, you will."

"Sorry." He does his best to look apologetic, and if Jensen doesn't suspect the real reason Jared feels guilty, he is counting it as a win. Authentic emotions add to the believability. If he makes it out of Angola at some point, he should maybe consider a career as a con man.

Nothing else is said on the subject, and Jared relaxes a little as he joins Misha. Misha has added a gallon of milk to the soup, declaring it "tomato cream soup", and, honestly, none of them are going to be winning any Michelin stars any time soon. Jensen and Murray serve lunch, and Jared hangs around the back of the kitchen with Misha, trying to sort through his thoughts.

"Could you think any louder?"

Jared shrugs, leans back in his chair. Misha is scrubbing oven trays at the counter next to him. For all intents and purposes, Misha looks as if there is not a thing wrong in his world, but Jared notices the little things, now that he's looking. Notices how Misha can't seem to stay still for too long. He realizes he's not been a very good friend, but, fuck, he doesn't know what to do, or say. And everything seems to throw Misha into a fit of rage at the moment.

"Just thinking about stuff..."

"Jensen."

"Among other things." Jared takes a small sip of his glass of water. "I'm sorry if I've been... unhelpful."

"You're fine," Misha squirts more washing up liquid on the tray, muscles in his arm straining as he tries to scrub burns that have probably been there for years off. "And you were right. It's not so bad having him around."

Understatement of the year probably. Hell, if it hadn't been for Jensen, he's fairly certain all three of them would be dead or in the hole. "I found something in our cell," Jared blurts out, eyes widening at his own admission. If he was going to confess, Misha was maybe his safest bet, but the safest of all would be if he learned to keep his fucking mouth shut.

Misha raises an eyebrow in question.

"Pictures. I didn't mean to, I was just... out of clean shirts and they were there."

Misha whistles through his teeth. "Not cool, dude."

"I know, I feel like shit." He really does. Hell, if he could unsee the pictures, he would. "I just wish he would want to talk to me, y'know? Hell, I've talked to him about stuff. Talked to you."

"Why?"

"Huh?"

"Why do you want him to talk? To satisfy your own curiosity?"

"No!" Not entirely. "That's what people do right, you and Rich share stuff?"

Misha finally turns around to face him, leans against the counter. "So is that what's going on then? You want more than just sex? Cause I gotta tell you, I don't think Jensen is much of a red roses and champagne kinda guy."

"I..." Jared trails off. He's not even sure if he ever wanted just sex to begin with. Or at all. Ok, that is a lie. "I don't know. Sometimes he seems like he opens up, and then he just slams the door shut every single time I think we may..." He sounds like a teenager. A whiny, lovesick teenager. "He talks to you." And that may just be part of the problem. If Jensen was just closed off in general, if it was just a personality trait, fine, Jared could suck it up. But it's not. Jensen is happy to talk to Misha, and it makes him feel left out. Like he's not half as important. It's childish, and stupid, but Jensen knows about some pretty bad shit that happened to Jared, because a lot of it played out right under his nose. Even if he hadn't quite welcomed it at the time, the fact that Jensen knows these things about him makes him feel tethered to something. It doesn't seem as if Jensen has anyone in here who he trusts enough to have the same.

"Yeah," Misha agrees, "but it's different. We were kinda in the same boat for a while. Sort of. I don't know, man, he just gets it. He doesn't complicate things, and he doesn't tell me how to feel, or how not to feel, or what to do."

"Did something happen to him when he was in E-Wing, too?"

Misha raises an eyebrow and snorts, face incredulous. "You're not serious. Jensen came with a reputation the day he arrived. He'd already been there for a while when I got there. There's no way."

Then what? "So how does he get it?"

"See, you don't listen, and you don't pay attention." Misha points a finger at him. "I told you he'd been in and out of prison most of his life. That is why he survives without much trouble now. You think it was like that when he was a kid? Hell, his first time in an adult prison?"

Jared winces, and Misha's expression hardens.

"I shouldn't have said anything. I don't know, ok? But you're making me guess, and frankly, I'm sick of it. You share a cell with the guy, you live in each others' pockets. If you want to know, just fucking ask _him,_ instead of trying to squeeze some gossip out of me."

Once again, he has managed to make it all about himself. Fuck, even if he tries to be a decent friend, the best he can do is twist it around to gain intel on Jensen. Misha is no longer paying him any attention, back to scrubbing, but his cheeks are flushed, and his jaw is tense.

"Misha, I-"

"Shut up!" Misha lifts the tray and slams it down on the counter. "Fucking shut up."

Jared catches Rich's eyes across the kitchen, but he doesn't make a move to come over. He just looks tired, resigned. Out of his element now that Misha is responding to everything he - or perhaps anyone - does with anger. He serves dinner with Rich, thanking his lucky stars that Jensen hasn't questioned whether he found something he wasn't supposed to during his little theft.

"So you are Jensen's new toy..."

He looks up at the sultry voice to find Pellegrino in front of him, head cocked to the side, eyes dragging over him slowly, in a way that Jared swears he can feel on his skin. Awesome. Just the thing that was missing from his day. "I'm not a toy."

"Is that so?" Pellegrino's eyebrows raise in mock surprise. "Hmm," he looks down at the counter as if trying to assess the veracity of this information. "That's funny, cause, you see, Jensen doesn't play for keeps."

"It's none of your business."

Rich watches them quietly, serving the inmates who walk around Pellegrino instead of waiting behind him. A small testament to Pellegrino's place in the block's hierarchy, already. Doesn't bode well.

"I'm just looking out for you, Jared, is it?"

"I don't need looking out for."

Pellegrino clicks his tongue. "He got you good, huh? Selling you dreams of white picket bars and shared domestic chores?"

Jared snorts. Hardly. If this guy thinks he can get under Jared's skin, he's got another thing coming. "Nah, not at all."

"If you don't think you need someone to look out for you, then clearly," Pellegrino points a finger at him, "you trust him."

"So? Worse people around to trust." He raises a pointed eyebrow.

Pellegrino grins wolfishly. "Yeah, you sound just like someone I used to know. Sound just like my buddy Chris."

Jared heart jumps up in his throat, but he tries not to let it show on his face. It doesn't work.

"Oh, you know the name, do you?" Pellegrino winks at him knowingly.

"Whatever, man."

"Yeah, see, Chris trusted Jensen too..."

Pellegrino has Rich's attention as well now, the line of inmates thinning, and like a train wreck, Jared finds he can't drag his eyes away from Pellegrino's face.

"Too bad we can't ask him how that turned out for him."

*

He's drowning. Slowly, lungs filling up with water, stealing his breath, silencing his voice. Jared is drowning and any minute now someone is going to notice and start asking questions, and he is going to lose it. And when he loses it, he is going to do something stupid, and then he'll wake up in the hole with a sedative in his system, and dead people talking to him. Can't let that happen. His body operates on automatic, doing menial tasks he could luckily do in his sleep, but it leaves him with too much focus on the thoughts swirling around in his mind. His fingers feel numb, skin too hot, too tight as he questions every fucking thing that happened to him since he got to Angola, since he met Jensen.

For all his trying to piece together bits of Jensen's life, to get an understanding of what he was dealing with, he ignored every single damn clue. Maybe Pellegrino is lying. Maybe Jensen lied every time he talked about wanting to kill Jared. Maybe that is the lie he has been telling himself to fall asleep at night, closing his eyes on the whole of Jensen Ackles, picking up the bits he liked and putting them in his pockets to carry around with him, leaving everything else behind as if it wouldn't be there if he just ignored it.

The illusion is shattered. Up is down or sideways, and his heart is a panicked flutter in his chest as he tries to make his feet stay on the ground. Find an anchor, reassemble. Breathe through it. It's too fucking much, and his head is going to explode. Images flash before his eyes, pounding at his temples, words distorted, merging together, creating a swirl of his surroundings. When no one is looking, he slips down the corridor into the stockroom, closes the door behind him and leans against it. The sound of his breathing fills the room, too fast, too loud. The cans of soup swim in and out of focus, and he slips to the floor slowly, legs stretched out in front of him.

Whatever sort of protective wall his little makeshift sense of normality awarded him is crumbling. Whatever was tightly wrapped around his ability to keep it together is unwinding. With it, everything rushes back in like a river no longer held back by a dam. Alex. The girl in the liquor store. His mum. Angola. Jensen. His six-foot-something, homicidal, cocky, arrogant, sinfully gorgeous hit man, who somehow managed to spin fairy tales around Jared without him realizing. Or without him fully acknowledging it was happening. Jensen. Always four steps ahead of him in everything. Playing chess with all of them. And still. Even now. Jared misses him, has been missing him.

Jared chokes on a dry sob, head banging back against the door lightly as if he can smack some sense into himself. Why didn't he fucking listen? There's a bitter taste in his mouth, like betrayal. Pellegrino was right, even if Jared hadn't fully appreciated how right. He does trust Jensen. Jensen slipped into the cracks and made himself at home in the comfort of Jared's mind, his self-preservation. Even now, a voice in the back of his head is trying to tell him that Jensen looked out for him. Jensen's offered to kill the piece of shit that hurt Misha. Even Rich has warmed up to him.

_What if it's all an act?_

But what would be the point?

_I was bored._

"Fuck." Jared closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths to try to slow down the thoughts. He doesn't want to believe it, wants to believe that he hasn't been so completely, utterly fooled. The thought that he was nothing more than a plaything for Jensen, something to poke and prod and pass the time that never seems to pass in here, it presses on him. He doesn't want to believe a word Pellegrino said, but his words fit with a version of Jensen Jared hasn't allowed himself to look at too closely.

He stays in the stockroom until he can feel his fingers again. His chest remains tight as he pushes himself up to his feet, using a hand on the door to steady himself. What he wouldn't give to just sleep in the stockroom. Too bad that the whole prison would probably lock down if he isn't at count, and that's additional drama he really doesn't need.

When he walks back into the kitchen, only Rich, Misha, and Jensen are left, standing around the counter, probably waiting for the guard to return to escort them back to their cells. He avoids all of their eyes, but his skin prickles when Jensen's eyes linger on him.

"Alright boys, let's go." Dugas appears, waving a hand at them.

Jared and Jensen walk behind Rich and Misha, who subtly glance over their shoulders at him. When the bars shut, Jared is already up on his bunk, turning his back to Jensen, hoping just this once, Jensen will take the hint.

He listens to Jensen brush his teeth, settle on his bunk, and when the lights turn out without Jensen uttering a word, Jared relaxes a little. One night of fucking peace and quiet. Not that he can sleep, still trying to put things back into some semblance of order. It's as if Pellegrino barged into Jared's head and pulled everything out of its place, in a big pile on the floor, and now he can't remember where anything goes. The cell block is starting to settle down around them, turning from loud voices to muffled noises. It is much, much later, when snores fill the quiet, and Jared has counted all the holes in the ceiling at least twice, that Jensen speaks.

"I know you found the pictures."

He holds his breath, wondering for a moment if he's imagining things again, Jensen voice is so soft it might as well be an illusion carried by the air conditioning, teasing against Jared's ears.

"Why wouldn't you just tell me?"

Jared snorts, rolls over on his back. "Because if I had admitted to accidentally finding them, you would have ended me."

"What makes you say that?"

"Are you for real? You've considered killing me over a lot less, and you've made it abundantly clear that you don't want me to know anything about you."

Silence, for a beat. "Are you a masochist, or does the general sense of danger just get you hard?"

"Oh, we're back to asking questions now? Is the reason you are so nice to Misha that you know what it's like to be in his shoes?"

"D'you miss feeling my lips close around your dick? Feeling mine on your tongue? Did it turn you on to think I may just close my hands around your throat and squeeze? Kiss you, then snap your neck?"

Jared gasps, neurons misfiring, heat pooling low in his stomach at the images Jensen carelessly conjures up, but not the violence. Not the... He squeezes his eyes shut, swallows down on the shame that sits heavy in the back of his throat. Not the violence, per se, no. But shit, if there isn't a reason that he's letting Jensen this close, knowing what he does about the guy. There's a reason he can so easily put all of it to a side, and fuck if it's not Jensen's seeming invincibility, the implicit power, yeah, danger, that surrounds him. It's a head rush he doesn't want, can't admit to. The floor crumbles under him some more, adding to his sense of vertigo, because warped morals or not, even he doesn't need glasses to see how fucked up this is.

"Gone pretty quiet there, Jay," Jensen says, amusement clinging to every word. "Shit, are you touching yourself right now? Hm? Thinking about fucking me? Maybe thinking about spreading your legs for me and letting me do whatever the fuck I want with you?"

He breathes out harshly, trying to muffle the sound in his pillow even as his dick gives an interested twitch. He tries to get the upper hand, switch gears, even if he knows it's a futile effort. "Pellegrino told me some interesting things today." His voice sounds a little too low, not matching the words, like he's grappling for some kind of foothold, and he knows Jensen can see through him easily.

Jensen hums. "I bet he did. He tells pretty stories."

"As do you. All lies and half-truths."

"I don't think I've lied to you yet. You on the other hand..."

"If you're gonna kill me, why don't you just get it over with?"

"I really thought you were past the self-flagellation. Guess not."

"He said I should ask you about Chris."

Jensen shifts on his bunk. "What do _you_ think?"

"I think it doesn't matter cause you'd lie to me anyway. I only know what you want me to know. Which is not a fucking thing."

"In my defense, it's not as if you've handled what you _do_ know spectacularly well."

Jared rolls on his stomach, tries to block out Jensen's words even as he's trying to make sense of them. "What part of this works for you?" There has to be a reason that Jensen is letting this happen, letting him stay in his space, and it's about the only thing Jared has left to cling to.

"Get down here, and I'll show you."

Jared closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "No."

"No?" Jensen's voice still sounds amused, as if they're playing an entertaining game, and he is winning. "If the answer is no... then I wonder, what part of it works for you?"

"I distinctly remember you saying if you wanted someone to suck your dick you could find a willing mouth anywhere in the block."

"I distinctly remember you not liking the idea of some random con sucking me off all that much."

And he still doesn't. "Ah is that it? It's no longer fun for you because now I..." He lets his voice trail off, can't quite force the words out of his throat.

"Want to?" Jensen shifts on his bunk, it sounds as if he's sitting up.

A moment later, his face appears next to Jared's, Jensen's arms crossed on the mattress, his chin resting on them as he observes Jared. No snark, no smirk, just mild fascination, face partially hidden in the shadows. It's disarming, and Jared relaxes a bit more into the mattress. He can't explain it, every time Jensen looks at him like this, open, devoid of any mocking, honest, everything else just bleeds away. His hand is flat on the mattress next to his pillow, maybe an inch away from Jensen's face. His fingers itch with the need to reach out and touch, moth to flame. Moth to raging wildfire more like.

Jensen waits, not moving, not saying anything, as if he's perfectly happy to let Jared take his time and decide what happens next.

Jared moves a fingertip, touches it to Jensen's arm. The tiniest of gestures, but it's all he can muster right now. He doesn't want to be the next juicy fly in Jensen's web. Jensen moves his hand, slides it over until it covers Jared's. A warm, heavy weight, not squeezing, not pushing or pulling just sitting there. If there was any sexual tension before, if that had been Jensen's intention, it's burning off into the edges, leaving warmth behind.

Sex is one thing. But this, this is intimate. Jared feels naked in his clothes covered by a blanket. Jensen is too close, staring at him, no, looking at him just because he can. Jared looks back. Takes his time now that Jensen lets him. Dark stubble over a strong jaw, perfect lips, parted slightly, warm breath drifting toward Jared with every exhale. Freckles on his nose, his cheeks, he can just barely make out in the dark. Dark lashes, framing eyes that still look green somehow, even in the shadows. Hair that looks as soft as he knows it feels. From this close, he sees the shadows hiding behind Jensen's eyes. Sees what he's been guessing at, like a coloring book he is slowly completing. He can see the different pieces now, and it's not one or the other. It's not Jensen the hit man, Jensen the murderer, Jensen the arrogant asshole vs. Jensen who makes him laugh, Jensen who makes him see stars, or little boy Jensen with bruises on his face, Jensen with a dead boyfriend he sees when he can't sleep for days. It's not one or the other, it's all a part of him, altogether making up the confusing painting that is Jensen Ackles. Sunshine and shade, wit and snark, toughness and... vulnerability. Sometimes.

"Thinking big thoughts, cowboy," Jensen whispers, lips twitching slightly in a not-quite smile.

Jared smiles, nods. He swallows thickly before turning his hand over under Jensen's so that he's holding it. Their fingers tangle, neither one of them making a move to grasp, or to change anything. "Am I giving you a headache again?"

"Not so much today."

"Guess I gotta try harder."

Jensen chuckles. "Yeah. Guess you do." He lifts his head off his forearm and leans in, brushing his lips over Jared's lightly. It's chaste, and different, and it tightens something in Jared's chest. Jensen pulls back just enough that he can look at Jared without going cross-eyed. "Night, Jay."

Jared blinks, and Jensen is gone. He licks his lips, chasing the taste of Jensen's toothpaste, the feeling that simmers under his skin, over his skin like a soft blanket. The rest of his tension bleeds out of him with every deep exhale, with every one of Jensen's exhales underneath him. His chest feels a bit less tight, his mind pleasantly blank as he lets the sound of Jensen's breathing lull him to sleep.

*

The next day, something happens that hasn't happened before. Jared misses breakfast. It's not his fault, not like he overslept or would even be allowed to oversleep. His therapy session got rescheduled to ass o'clock in the morning. As soon as he's out of the shower, a guard intercepts him and takes him to the infirmary. Something about a "last minute scheduling conflict". Not the end of the world, but it means he has to face the therapist without a healthy dose of caffeine and nicotine in his system. Sleep clings to him, and when she notices, she apologizes for seeing him so early in the morning.

"Not like I had other plans," he shrugs, studying the painting on her wall. The Golden Gate Bridge. He's never been there. Hell, he's never been much of anywhere.

"You seem to be sleeping better, Jared," she remarks, scribbling something on a notepad.

Yeah, he hadn't really paid much attention, but now that he thinks about it, she's right. Even with all the drama surrounding the new arrivals to his cell block, the inner turmoil over Jensen, he does find it easier to fall into a dreamless sleep. When he dreams, the images he sees range from boring and mundane to making him wake up hard, thoughts of Jensen, naked, with him lulling him awake.

"Have you given any thought to what you may want to do if you're paroled at some point?"

"No. Got years to go, what's the point in thinking about something that may never happen?" He can't think about the world beyond the gates of Angola, it's easier to _be_ if he can pretend the rest of the world has stopped spinning.

"It's never bad to have a plan, an idea of what you'd want your life to be like."

He frowns at her, considers the words, entertains them for a moment. Maybe he will still be alive when his parole date rolls around. Maybe the stars will align, and they will let him go. Then what? His empty stomach clenches as he tries to run through different scenarios of life on the outside, but they all share one common element. He will be alone. No friends or family left, no one to go see. No one to have missed him for the years he will have spent here. He would go from being constantly surrounded by people, having no time to himself, to having nothing but time to himself. The thought makes his skin prickle. If he ever gets to turn his back on Angola, it would mean turning his back on Jensen too.

He's relieved when his time is up and a guard escorts him back to C-Wing, his feet heavy as he blames the uneasy feeling in his gut on hunger and a need for coffee. Yeah, that's all.

The breakfast service has finished when he enters the kitchen, the canteen empty except for Pellegrino and his mop. He finds Misha and Jensen in the back at the table, finishing their coffees, but no sign of Rich. He glances around the kitchen, across the canteen, and finds Rich outside, smoking by himself. There is so much wrong with that picture, but it's too early to linger on it.

Misha nods at the tray of breakfast left for him, and he smiles gratefully. His stomach rumbles as he digs in. Jensen watches him silently for a moment before going back to his conversation with Misha.

"So, yeah, he's working at a prison in Texas now. I guess they decided he deserved a second chance, realized his methods were alright, just the consequences in this particular case somewhat... unfortunate."

"Who're you talking about?" Jared asks around a mouthful of eggs.

"The doc who did our group therapy," Misha answers, blowing on his coffee.

Jared raises an eyebrow at the casual acknowledgment. Neither one of them had been very forthcoming with details on the subject, and now they're just casually discussing it over coffee? He looks between the two of them, but decides to let it go. Maybe not everything is worth getting into. He wastes away the time until lunch, pretends to be engaged in watching potatoes boil, but it's about as entertaining as watching paint dry. Still, he's fine with a low maintenance job.

"Need a hand?"

Rich is behind him, twisting the strings of his apron around his finger as he nods at the pots on the stove. "Eh, sure," Jared nods, hands him a spoon. "I think just... stir them and stare at them until they're done?"

"Sounds intense." Rich leans against the counter by the pots, not even bothering to act like he's helping.

Without Rich's jokes, the humor in the kitchen has all but dried up. Jared hadn't realized before how a simple, flippant comment from Rich could diffuse a situation, keep the air around them lighthearted, and push the neverending clock a little faster. As annoying as he may have found Rich's observations on occasion, this is more unsettling. He runs through a list of potential topics of conversation, discarding each of them as being too obvious, or just too fucking random.

"Pellegrino asked about you this morning," Rich offers.

"What? Why? When?"

"At breakfast. Jensen and I served. Pellegrino asked Jensen where he was hiding you."

Jared chews on his lip, the potatoes all but forgotten as he turns to Rich. "He just... I guess he's just trying to wind Jensen up."

Rich hums in agreement. "You gotta think, though... why's he think he can use you to do so?"

"I don't know, cause he's an idiot," Jared shrugs, eyes drifting over the canteen, but Pellegrino is no longer there. He will probably be back to mopping after lunch though, and why the fuck do they need to clean the canteen after every meal anyway? It'll just get messy, why not clean the whole thing once at the end of the day?

Rich pushes away from the counter, and pats Jared on the shoulder. "He's not the only one, Nemo." With that, Rich leaves him to his potatoes.

For lunch, Misha and Jared are back at the counter. Lunch is the quickest meal to serve. Soup and sandwiches. Some fruit. It's easy, it's quick, or it used to be. He could do it in his sleep with one hand tied behind him. Not anymore. Jared eyes Robson and his buddies wearily, bracing himself for another incident.

"Oh, good, you're back, sweetheart," Robson grins at Misha, "I missed you."

Misha looks from Robson to the ladle full of soup, and back to Robson. Jared's eyes widen, but Misha doesn't move, he waits, tense, ready to spring to action. Jared notices, but Robson proves once again that he doesn't have two brain cells to fire at each other.

"What, are you gonna ignore me now? I thought we got along so well..."

"We didn't," Misha says, voice cold, flat. A clear as fuck warning as far as Jared is concerned, but the sentiment isn't echoed by Robson.

"Come on, what do you say you and I spend some quality time together huh? Get reacquainted?" Robson leans over the counter as if he's letting Misha in on a secret. "I'll make it real good for ya."

Jared saw it coming two minutes ago, but he didn't stop it. Didn't feel inclined to tell Misha what to do for once, or what not to do. He didn't stop it, and he is not surprised when Misha pulls the spoonful of hot soup back and launches it at Robson's face. Robson screams, stumbles backwards, hands wiping at his face as big red globs drip down his skin. Misha carefully sets the ladle back down, his expression blank even as the guard runs over to see what the commotion is about.

"What the fuck is going on here?"

"He fucking threw soup at me!" Robson's face is red, and Jared isn't sure if it's from the soup or anger. Either way, he looks positively ridiculous with little bits of noodle stuck to his face.

The guard turns to Jared and Misha, and Misha offers a small smile. "It was an accident."

Jared bites down a snort, even as Robson lunges forward as if he's going to jump over the service counter and strangle Misha.

"You fucking faggot. I'll kill you. I'll fucking kill you, you cocksucking little shit."

The guard grabs him by the back of his shirt and pulls him back. "Cut it the fuck out, Robson, or I'll drop your ass in the hole."

"I'm gonna kill you!"

The guard pushes Robson back. "Walk it off." He stares Robson down, only turning around when Robson wanders off, still swearing loudly. He looks back over his shoulder, drags a finger across his throat in a slicing motion, then points at Misha.

"Collins?"

"Sorry, sir. Won't happen again."

"See to it that it doesn't." With that, the guard leaves them to it.

As soon as he's on the other side of the canteen, out of earshot, Misha picks up the ladle and flings it across the kitchen against the wall. "Fuck!" He retreats to the back of the kitchen without another word.

Jared finishes serving the last few inmates, grabbing another ladle from one of the drawers, switching between Misha's spot and his own until Jensen comes to stand next to him. He doesn't say anything, just takes Misha's spot and serves soup. Jared is about to start breathing again when Pellegrino steps in front of them.

"Two for the price of one, it's my lucky day." He wiggles his eyebrows.

"Meat, fish, veg?" Jared grinds out, eyeing Jensen's ladle. Tempting. Really fucking tempting.

"Meat. Definitely." Pellegrino winks at him as Jared puts the sandwich on his tray.

He steps to the side in front of Jensen. "You look troubled, Jen. This puppy keeping you up at night?"

Jensen puts the ladle down, leans on the counter. "Keep walking, Mark."

"I'd like my soup, please."

"And I'd like you to get fucked."

Pellegrino whistles through his teeth. "Was that an offer?"

"It's a promise. Get the fuck out of here."

"I'm fairly certain it's my constitutional right to eat."

"I'm fairly certain I'll drown you in this fucking soup if you don't fuck off."

Pellegrino purses his lips, glances at Jared. "Your boy's a bit testy. Are you depriving him of dick or something?"

Jensen growls. "You wanna go?"

"Think you can make me the next notch in your bedpost, Jen? Wanna try your luck? I know all your tricks, you know."

"You don't know shit. I'll make it so there's nothing left of you to find."

Pellegrino blinks, but his lazy smirk doesn't falter. "Say you were to succeed, which, honestly? You're so out of practice, I highly doubt you could get one up on me. But let's say you did..."

Jared eyes the three inmates left in line, all three of them looking torn between sandwiches and walking away not being a part of any of this. He places three sandwiches on the counter, offering a thin smile when they nod in gratitude and disappear.

"I go, someone else will take my place." Pellegrino's fingers trace over the glass counter separating them, leaving smudges on the glass. "And we'll just keep coming, Jen. Keep unraveling you until you lose your goddamn mind. Until you're in the ground where you belong."

"Hell of a thing to lose your life over, you pathetic lap dog."

Jared wants to leave but his fucking feet are glued to the floor. His eyes flicker between the two men, then to the guard who pays them no attention. Funny how attention can be directed or redirected depending on who's pulling the strings.

"I'll make it hurt, too," Pellegrino smiles, nodding his head at Jared. "Maybe I'll start with him. Wouldn't that just be the most beautiful déjà-vu?"

Jensen exhales sharply, and Jared wants to shrink, wants to disappear into the floor and not be a part of this.

"Laugh it up while you can, and make sure you enjoy it" Jensen whispers, eyes on the guard that is making his way back to them too slowly to be taken seriously. "If there's anything left on your bucket list, get to it. You wanna climb a mountain? Have a threesome? Try meth? Do it now." Jensen licks his lips, fingers twitching. "And take a good look, Mark. The last thing you will see is my face when I snuff your lights out."

"Don't you boys have some cleaning up to do?" The guard asks, addressing Jared and Jensen, staring down his nose at both of them.

Anger spikes under Jared's skin, at the fucking unfairness of it all, but Jensen's hand nudges against his hip lightly, keeping him in place.

"Sure thing, boss," Jensen nods, then turns away to start putting away leftovers.

Pellegrino watches him for a moment before turning his attention to Jared. He doesn't say anything, just tilts his head, chewing on his lower lip slowly, and Jared really doesn't want to guess at the thoughts running through his head.

It is shaping up to be a fantastic day. Jared has lost his appetite, and he doesn't think he'll ever eat another spoonful of soup. For once, that judgment is not entirely down to its questionable consistency. Rich and Misha are in the stock room doing fuck knows what, though Jared is fairly certain it involves a similar avoidance of lunch food. Hey, at least they can be in the same space without Misha tearing down the place. Jensen... hovers around him, too close without being too obvious, but constantly there in the corner of his eye, and he suddenly has a pretty good sense of how Misha has been feeling all week.

Worse than that, though, it makes him feel unsafe. If Jensen is sticking close to him, there must be something to Pellegrino's words, something that makes Jensen think he's a threat, or a potential one, and Jared wonders just how he managed to get into the middle of a vendetta between two men who kill for money. His growing worry is confirmed when Jensen corners him a while later, while he is peeling potatoes in the back.

"Jared."

"Uh-huh?" He glances sideways at Jensen, his chest tightening a little, throat thick, a sense of foreboding pressing down on him.

Jensen rubs a hand across his stomach, his face pensive. "I want you to watch your back and avoid going somewhere by yourself."

Jared rolls his eyes with annoyance he doesn't quite feel. "Well, shit, Jensen, I guess that's my weekend trip to SeaWorld canceled then."

"I'm not kidding."

"Just where the fuck would I go?" He spreads his hands, indicating the kitchen, hoping to highlight the ridiculousness of Jensen's warning, pushing down the adrenaline spiking through him.

"The yard. The gym. The rec room. The showers. The cell block during the day. Just... fuck, just don't go alone, alright? It doesn't have to be me. Take Rich. Take Misha. Hell, take Murray! Just take someone."

"What, you think I can't look out for myself?"

Jensen huffs out a breath, shakes his head. "You don't know what you're fucking with, man."

"Oh, ok," Jared puts the knife down and turns to face Jensen. " _I_ am not fucking with _anything_."

"Fine, I am really fucking sorry I dragged you into this, and trust me when I say I really didn't mean to," Jensen bites out, running a hand through his hair. "While you're pissed at me, though, can you please just listen to me and not put yourself in danger for no good reason?"

"I don't need a fucking babysitter."

"I beg to differ."

"I don't fucking care what you think." He picks the peeler back up and goes back to peeling. He has some fucking pride left in his tiny toe, and Mark fucking Pellegrino playing head games is not going to be the thing that does him in. Jared refuses. He doesn't notice Jensen moving closer to him until he's right behind him, hand closing over his holding the potato peeler.

"Please listen to me," Jensen whispers, lips brushing over his ear, making Jared shiver.

Jared swallows thickly, turns around to face Jensen. He's taken aback by the frown on Jensen's face, the genuine concern making his blood run a little faster, desire and apprehension warring for control inside him. "Jensen-"

Jensen shuts him up, brushing his lips over Jared's, making his brain misfire because, fuck, they're in the middle of the fucking kitchen, and sure, they're in the back, and sure, at most, Rich, Misha, or Murray can see them, but Jensen doesn't do PDA. Jensen does teasing, and flirting, and setting Jared's blood on fire with a peek of his tongue, a cocking of his hip, but not fucking this, not here, not like this.

Jensen pulls back, no more than a breath between them, eyes unfocused, too fucking close, flipping Jared's stomach over as he's trying to make sense of the feelings pulling him this way and that. He knows he should be scared if Jensen is, logic dictates he listens, fucking listens, because Jensen wouldn't...

"Thank you." Jensen steps back, nods to himself and turns his back.

But he doesn't fucking leave. He remains close by, watching, alert, his guardian fucking angel that he didn't ask for, and the fact that it's Jensen who put him in this position in the first place should matter more than it does. He enjoys the comfort, takes it for caring rather than suffocating presence, and, hell, he's fallen too far to hit the brakes now.

*

By the time they are locked in their cells, Jared has a pounding headache, and it's as if he can feel every individual bite of food he's eaten during the day sit in his stomach heavily. He brushes his teeth quickly, relieved when he's flat on his thin mattress, blanket pulled over him. By covering himself he can hide from the world a little, can shut out Jensen's warning, Pellegrino's words. It's not entirely fear that has taken over his mind, it's just exhaustion. There is too much to make sense of, and he's standing too close to all of it to figure it out.

"You ok?"

He opens his eyes, finds Jensen's face next to him. "No."

Jensen nods, as if that is the answer he had been expecting. "Did I scare you?"

Jared grits his teeth, pulls the cover up to his chin. "No more than usual." It's a lie, and he knows that Jensen knows it's a lie.

"Hey," Jensen reaches out, fingers trailing through Jared's hair lightly, whisper-soft touch, too fucking gentle. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

It warms his skin, makes him want to lean into the touch, take the comfort he hadn't realized he craved, lean on Jensen just a little, but it's too raw, too open and out there. If he gives into the comfort, he's admitting he's scared, and if he admits he's scared, he may just lose it. Whatever is left of "it". "Seems like you don't believe that's even up to you."

Jensen pulls his hand back, lets it sit on the mattress next to Jared's pillow. His brow is pinched tight, but his eyes are warm, warmer than Jared remembers seeing them.

"For now, just do what I asked you to, and I promise you, you'll be fine."

"What about Misha?" It's easier to push concern over himself aside and focus on the other development of the day. The one that had nothing to do with him.

Jensen blinks, twice, before his eyes glance to the side. "What about Misha?"

"No way you didn't hear Robson, how's that not a threat?"

"People say things, Jared. Not all of it is true."

"You have a lot of faith in the conscience of a fucking rapist."

"It was different, he hung out with some assholes." Jensen raises a hand when Jared starts to protest. "Yeah, he was an asshole too, but I don't think he was really the instigator."

"He's got new friends to back him up now. Fuck, why can't you-"

"Why can't I what?" Jensen hisses, fingers curling in the sheet. "None of you voted me the fucking sheriff in town, alright? Now the thing with you, that's my fault, so I'll fix it, but Misha..."

"Thought he was your friend. Nice way to treat your friends."

"Every man for himself, Jared."

"You don't believe that. Fuck, you're just a coward. You've killed people for a lot less."

"And you don't think that is going to lead the guards right to us? You seem to forget I lost my mojo, they're not just going to look the other way because I ask them nicely."

"Thought you were the best there is. You can't swing one stupid con? Man, did they oversell your talent."

Jensen's eyes widen, his hand pulling back. "What's up with you? You get all heartbroken over Rich asking me to kill him, and now _you're_ trying to goad me into doing it?"

Yeah, Jared is well aware. He shrugs into the mattress. "Things change. Everyone is all fucked up. It makes everything..." He searches for the right word, realizes one doesn't exist. "Harder."

"I know." Jensen watches him for a moment longer, he looks as if he may say something, but he decides against it.

The pounding in Jared's head doesn't subside when Jensen settles on his own bunk, the sound of Jensen's breathing a minimally comforting presence.

*

The timing could not be worse. The next day is Saturday, and Jared doesn't want to get out of bed. Without the safety of the kitchen walls, he's not sure how any of them are going to still be alive Monday morning. Jensen waits for him by the bars, and Jared wonders if he can just stay here all day, claim to be sick.

"Jared..."

Staying here by himself would probably just increase the risk. He rolls off his bunk with a sigh, landing heavily on the cold concrete floor. He slips on his sweatpants and a t-shirt, toes on his sneakers, grabs his shower stuff and brushes past Jensen without so much as a "morning". Because of Jared being slow to rise, the showers are only half-occupied by the time they get there. To Jared's relief, Pellegrino is not among the inmates, which means he must be on the top tier of the block. Jared hadn't given it much thought, but he's relieved he at least doesn't have to deal with that. Unfortunately, the same can't be said for Robson.

Jensen sticks by him, taking the shower head next to him, Rich and Misha across from them, three other inmates staring at the walls at the other showers. And then there's Robson, leaning back against the wall, hand pulling lightly at his dick, his eyes fixed on Misha.

Jesus fucking Christ.

There is no way Rich hasn't noticed, every muscle in his back tense, hands rubbing shampoo into his hair a little too aggressively. Misha ignores all of them, seemingly content to let the water trickle over his back, in a world of his own, hand flat on the tiles, his forehead resting against it. Jensen's eyes flicker over Robson, to Rich and Misha, then back to Robson. He doesn't say anything, washes himself quickly, and Jared's blood is boiling. They're all just gonna sit quietly and take it then?

Misha and Rich exit first, and by the time Jensen and Jared leave the shower they've already left. As soon as Jensen steps into the empty changing room, he spins back around. Two steps, and he's in front of Robson, grabs him by his hair, he pulls his head back and slams Robson's face into the wall. Robson screams in pain, sinking to his knees, and Jensen holds his head up, cold eyes staring down at him. It all happened in less than ten seconds, and Jared gapes at the blood on the wall, the blood trickling down Robson's face, the chill in Jensen's eyes, and he wonders if that is the last thing all of his victims ever saw.

Jensen has not said a word, but he waits for Robson's eyes to find his before letting go of his hair with a small jerk of his hand, as if he's throwing out a garbage bag. Robson sags against the wall, and Jensen steps around him to the bench with his clothes. The other cons look at him warily, move away from him, and Jared wonders if they maybe had needed a reminder. Don't fuck with Jensen. Guards or no guards.

The two of them line up to get their breakfast, then join Misha and Rich at their table. Misha's chin is nearly on his chest, fingers curled loosely around a cup of coffee. Rich doesn't have food either, just coffee, and he doesn't even look up when Jensen and Jared join them.

Misha looks half-asleep, dark mop of hair blocking any view of his face.

Jensen takes a bite of his toast, then nods at Misha. "What did he take?"

Jared's eyes widen, looking at Jensen then back at Misha.

Rich shakes his head, rubs a hand over his face. "Heroin."

"How?" Jared exclaims, cause seriously what the fuck?

"I think he had it for a few days, probably thought it would make the weekend less..." Rich gestures vaguely with his hand.

Misha starts to sag off his chair, and Rich pushes him closer, lets Misha fall into his side, head lolling on Rich's shoulder.

"Is he breathing ok?" Jensen asks Rich, taking another bite of toast.

"You think I'm a fucking idiot?" Rich's eyes flash angrily, but there's a haze of panic to the usually calm amber. "He thought I was still asleep, got up and found him strung out with that shit next to him."

Jensen opens his mouth, but Rich interrupts him.

"Yes, I fucking flushed it. You think this is my first rodeo?"

Jared looks at Misha more closely; his skin is pale, slightly clammy, muscle of his jaw slack. Jared knows the look, even if he never sold heroin, he's been around it enough to kick himself for not noticing in the shower.

"I figure I take him outside after breakfast, keep him away from the guards until he comes down. Last thing he needs is to get shipped out of the block for relapsing." Rich's hand clenches on Misha's thigh, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his sweatpants.

Jared has lost his appetite.

Robson sits down a few tables over from them, a large purple bruise on his forehead. Rich raises an eyebrow at the sight, fixing Jensen with a questioning look.

"Floors are slippery," Jensen shrugs, washing his toast down with coffee.

Rich snorts, a small smile curling his lips. "Aren't they just."

When Jensen is done with his breakfast, he takes the trays back and joins the three of them outside. Rich sits Misha down at the picnic table in the far corner, pulls the hood of his hoodie up over Misha's head so he could pass for just staring down at his shoes lost in thought. He leans heavily against Rich, who lights a cigarette with slightly shaking fingers.

"Should you maybe take him to the infirmary?" Jared asks around a lungful of smoke, indicating Misha. What he knows about heroin, which is not that much, is that it's very easy to accidentally overdose after you're off the stuff. And Misha had been clean for... a while, he thinks.

"He's conscious and breathing," Rich shrugs, the movement nudging Misha's head on his shoulder.

Misha lifts his head slowly, blinking against the bright sunlight. "No infirmary, 'm fine."

"But-"

"Only took a little bit," Misha smiles, putting his head back on Rich's shoulder, nuzzling at his jaw lightly. "I'll be fine in just a little while."

Jared is not so sure about that, but Jensen and Rich don't seem concerned, at least not about the overdose part.

"Where'd you get it, Misha?" Jensen asks, leaning in a little to catch Misha's low voice.

"Guy who works the laundry."

"Jeremiah Smith?"

"Other one."

Jensen hums, as if he knows who Misha means.

"Have we hit credible threat yet?" Rich asks Jensen, squinting up at him against the bright light of the early morning sun. "Or are you waiting for an embossed invitation to the escalation?"

"I'm working on it," Jensen mumbles, looking out across the yard at the other inmates, his hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his hoodie.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I'm working on it." Jensen leans back against the fence, seemingly casual but Jared is no longer fooled by Jensen's posturing.

"Well, work faster. Or I'm just gonna grab a kitchen knife and gut him like a pig."

Jensen nods, lips pursed. "Yeah, you landing your ass on death row is really going to solve all of your problems."

After a few minutes, Jared joins Jensen in a slow trek to the other side of the yard, leaving Rich to watch Misha as he sobers up. They never spend much time outside, no more than a few minutes, the yard usually too crowded for Jared to really be able to relax there. It's different walking around with Jensen next to him. Other inmates stay out of the way, doing no more than eying them suspiciously, none of them saying a word to either of them.

"You're like Moses parting the Red Sea over here," Jared says, after a few cons move out of their way to let them through.

Jensen doesn't respond, eyes fixed straight ahead, forehead creased in what Jared has come to known as "Jensen's thinking face".

They make it to the other side of the yard, and lean against the chain link fence. From this angle, the rest of Angola spreads out before them, endless concrete and iron, gates upon gates upon gates. Jared can see one of the guard towers as well now, looming large behind their wing, guards moving around in the tiny glass box, making sure everyone stays in their cages. The threat of a bullet in the back enough incentive to stay put, even for the most desperate of inmates. Jensen leans next to him, his shoulder tucked comfortably against Jared's, almost enough that when Jared closes his eyes he could picture them being somewhere else. Just two normal guys enjoying a bit of sun on their day off.

Almost.

"I see you still have a temper on you, Jen. Guess you're not all bark, huh?"

"Don't know what you're talking about."

"Never took you for one to pick up strays," Pellegrino tilts his head, dragging his eyes up the length of Jared until he meets his eyes. "Guess this one is your favorite, though, hm?"

Jensen folds his arms over his chest, manages to look bored with the whole conversation, even though Jared can feel the tension radiating off him. "Did you want something? Or are you just intent on boring everyone to tears with the sound of your own voice?"

"I always want something, Jen, you know that." Pellegrino steps closer, eying Jared as if he would like to pick him apart, see what makes him tick.

Jared swallows, audibly, the sound setting Jensen in motion.

He pushes away from the chain link fence, coming to stand in front of Pellegrino, mostly blocking Jared from his view. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I said no," Jensen shakes his head, voice low, dangerous, itching up Jared's spine as he strains to hear. "We are _not_ going to do this, Mark. I'm not gonna play your games."

"Is that so?"

"Your issue is with me. Not with him."

Pellegrino's smile broadens. "If you recall correctly, last time, my... issue was with you too." He leans into Jensen, close enough that they're almost touching, mouth by Jensen's ear, but he doesn't whisper, lets his voice carry just enough so Jared catches his words. "And you remember what happened, hm?"

Jensen's fingers flex by his sides, but before he can say another word, Pellegrino pats him on the shoulder and walks off. Jensen takes back his spot next to Jared, observing the yard in silence, and Jared decides for once that silence is preferable to trying to unpick yet another conversation. They stay in the sun for a while longer, until it feels close to lunch time, and they rejoin Rich and Misha at their picnic table.

Misha is looking decidedly more awake, and pissed off. Blue eyes spitting flames at Rich, fists balled on the table as Rich tries to talk to him without setting him off.

"Mish, I don't want you to relapse. They'll take you away, and I can't..." Rich's voice trembles around the last word, trails off when Jared and Jensen join them at the table.

"Sorry," Jared mumbles awkwardly, "didn't mean to interrupt."

"Don't worry about it," Misha says, voice gravelly as he stands up, swaying a little on his feet. "We're done."

"Misha..." Rich winces when Misha walks away from them without another word, or even so much as a glance in Rich's direction.

"Umm..." Jensen watches Misha go, "I don't think it's a good idea for him to be wandering around by himself. He's gonna run into Robson and try to kill him without thinking twice."

Rich throws his hands up, lets them fall back on the table with a loud thump. "What do you want me to do? I follow him, I'm halfway convinced he won't think twice about killing me."

Jensen hums in agreement, and Rich can't seem to muster the energy to pull a face. Jensen considers Jared for a moment, before exhaling slowly and standing back up. "Alrighty, off I go. And Jared? Please remember what I said yesterday."

Jared rolls his eyes. Of course. A friendly reminder that Jensen doesn't think Jared is capable of protecting himself. Picking Rich as his designated babysitter. At least he's spared the embarrassment of Jensen asking Rich to look out for him. Jared takes a few deep breaths to push down the annoyance, before focusing his attention on Rich.

"Guess he really didn't take that much then, huh?"

Rich shrugs. "Not even close enough for a nod, he really just wanted to take the edge off, but fuck."

"Why is he so pissed at you?"

"He's pissed at fucking everybody, Jared." Rich runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up at odd angles, lighter strands caught by the sunlight. "He's spinning, and I'm just trying to keep him from spinning out of orbit. And anyone who wants to self-destruct is not going to take kindly to someone trying to stop them"

A few moments later, several inmates move towards the windows in a loud explosion of noise. Rich and Jared are on their feet instantly, Jared's stomach sinking as he follows Rich into the canteen. Yeah, this can't be good.

His bad feelings are confirmed when they step into the canteen to find Jensen, holding back Misha, arms around him from behind as Misha tries to lunge out of his grip toward Robson. Robson, in front of them, ugly bruise clearly not enough of a deterrent after all.

"Aw, come on, sweetheart, I just wanna reminisce a little."

Dugas runs to them from across the canteen, and Jensen somehow manages to turn Misha around and push him to the far end of the canteen. Dugas ignores them, says something to Robson who backs off, sly smile painted on his face.

"Fuck," Rich huffs, making a beeline for Misha and Jensen.

"Get the fuck off me," Misha says, pushing against Jensen's arms, elbow swinging backwards nearly punching Jensen square in the nose.

Jensen lets go reluctantly, stepping around Misha, holding a hand on his chest. "Let it go."

"You fucking heard him. He grabbed me."

Rich growls next to Jared, and Jared instinctively curls his fingers around Rich's forearm, to keep him from doing something stupid.

"I heard him. You're not helping by taking a swing at him, only thing you're doing is making sure you'll get sent to the hole," Jensen's face is drawn in frustration, looking at Misha like he's about to run past him and have another go. I'll handle it."

Misha grits his teeth, takes a step back. "Fuck this shit." He turns around and kicks a chair, then sits at one of the tables, ignoring all three of them.

"Well, this morning is going swimmingly." Jensen shakes his head. He glances over at Robson and his pals, laughing at their own table, one of them making a lewd gesture with his hand. Jensen's eyes narrow. "Would you guys mind grabbing us some lunch? I think I need to have a little talk with Misha."

Jared wants to ask him what he possibly thinks he can fix at this point, but Rich nods, gets in line for lunch. Jared follows reluctantly, looking over his shoulder at Misha and Jensen every few seconds. The conversation looks heated. The line moves slowly. The voices behind him rise in volume.

"Jesus, Misha, I'm just asking you to let it the fuck go."

Jared and Rich's heads snap around to find Misha and Jensen standing toe to toe, yelling at each other.

"Fucking heroin? Because that worked out so well for you last time?"

As soon as the last word has left Jensen's lips, Misha's fist is pulled back, and he punches Jensen square in the face, making him stumble backwards a little. Holding the side of his face, he straightens back up, spits out some blood and smiles at Misha. "That the best you got? Hell, no wonder a pussy like Robson got a hold of you."

Jared's eyebrows disappear into his hairline, and Misha lunges forward, throwing Jensen to the ground, straddling his hips as he punches him. Over and over. Jared's feet start moving in their direction, even if part of him feels that Jensen definitely deserves the punches for what he's saying, but Rich holds him back.

"Rich? Fuck, they're gonna-" But Rich seems to have the same thought, or maybe he's just pleased to watch Misha blow off some steam.

It takes Dugas and another guard to pull Misha off of Jensen, who hasn't moved a muscle, and only leans up on an elbow once Misha is off him. The side of his face is swollen, blood trickling down his cheek, his lip split, and he suddenly looks eerily like the younger Jensen in the pictures Jared found. It takes both guards to restrain Misha, and finally Dugas cuffs his hands behind his back.

"That's it Collins, I've had it with you. Off to the hole you go."

"Fuck you," Misha spits out, and he doesn't stop struggling until he's escorted out of the cell block.

*

Rich and Jared join Jensen who has pulled himself up on a chair and is leaning heavily on the table. A few drops of blood paint the tabletop. Robson and his friends are jeering loudly behind them. Jared throws the tray down in front of Jensen. "The fuck was that?"

"He wouldn't see reason, he's gonna get us all in trouble, and I was sick of it so I lost my temper," Jensen says, wincing slightly when the words pull at his lip.

"So you think it's cool to say shit like that?" Jared is fuming now, his appetite long forgotten. Yes, this fits with the Jensen Pellegrino told him about. The one Jared has been trying to ignore. "Fuck, you're no fucking better than Robson."

Jensen's jaw tightens, fist thrumming lightly on his thigh. "Yeah. I guess so."

"Un-fucking-believable." Jared turns to Rich, who has not yet sat down. "Why aren't you saying anything? You heard what he said!"

Rich nods, studies the food on his plate before lifting his eyes to Jensen briefly. "Yeah... I... see ya." He spins around on his heel, saunters across the canteen to join Murray at a table further in the back.

"Sit down," Jensen hisses, pushing out the chair next to him.

"No, no I think I'm good. I don't know what games you're playing, but it's exhausting. You are fucking exhausting."

Jensen leans toward him, half-smile on his face, and he looks like a fucking maniac, blood painting his teeth. "Then take a nap, Jared, cause I'm just getting started."

Jared takes his tray and turns around. He considers Murray and Rich's table for a moment before settling on a small table on the side of the canteen. No other occupants, perfect. He's sick and tired of everyone. He eats by himself, and after lunch, he stays in the canteen, deciding that out in the open is about as good as not being by himself. If Pellegrino wants to take a swing, he'll have to do it in front of two dozen inmates, the kitchen staff and a few guards. It'll do.

He gets a local newspaper from a table in the corner and spends the afternoon flicking through it. Nothing fucking happens in St. Francisville. Still, it allows him to take a step back and take in some of the real world. Infinitely preferable to the one he's currently immersed in. Neither Rich nor Jensen seek him out, but Jensen spends the afternoon in the canteen as well, reading a book, holding a glass of water against his face whenever Jared glances in his direction. Good. He hopes it fucking hurts.

He eats dinner by himself too, doesn't even feel like sitting down with Rich and Murray. Not that he's overly fond of his own company at the best of times, but this whole fucking weekend is a shit show, and he does not feel forgiving. His thoughts drift to Misha, in the hole, by himself, dealing with all of this shit. By himself. He's probably crawling the walls already. Fucking Jensen.

After dinner, he lines up next to Jensen outside his cell as the guard walks down the block with his clipboard. He feels Rich's eyes on him, but he studiously stares at his toes, offering a quiet "Here" in response to his number.

When they're locked in their cell, Jensen reclines on his mattress and picks up a book, and Jared is done with avoiding the elephant in the room.

"I'm fucking pissed at you for being a dick to Misha, and getting him sent to the hole." And he’s expressing his emotions like his therapist taught him. Who says he’s not making progress?

Jensen turns a page of his book. "Ok."

"Ok? That's all you've got?"

"I lost my temper," Jensen shrugs. "Ain't the first time, won't be the last time."

"Damn it, Jensen, fucking _look_ at me."

Jensen stretches back on his mattress, book dangling from his fingers loosely. "Get to the point, Jared."

"I don't fucking get you. You punch Robson, then you're a fucking asshole to Misha, what the hell are you playing at?"

"Maybe I'm sick and tired of cleaning up everyone's mess."

"Pellegrino is your own fucking mess."

"Ok."

Jensen doesn't look like he's going to say anything more, and Jared isn't sure what he could say that would lessen his frustration any. He brushes his teeth, washes his face and goes to bed. Halfway through the weekend; one in the hole, all four still breathing. He hopes. The last thought before he falls asleep is, what will tomorrow's count be?

*

With Misha gone, some of the tension eases. Or perhaps it's just because the kitchen crew is most definitely not on speaking terms. Not a word is said in the shower, in line for breakfast, and they eat their breakfasts separately, although Rich seems to have found a reluctant friend in Murray. To Jared's surprise, Jensen pauses at their table when he goes to take back his tray. He leans down to whisper something in Rich's ear, and Rich's eyebrows raise, before he nods. Jensen pats him on the shoulder and disappears from the canteen.

Jared gets that Misha has been a bit of a dick to Rich, but hell, enough for Rich to just forget the shit Jensen said? Something is wrong, and Jared is going to leave them to it. They wanna be butt buddies after all this, cool. He doesn't care. Nope, not at all.

Faced with another boring as fuck day in the canteen, he decides to try his luck in the rec room. Jensen's warning is still in the back of his mind, but he's just about annoyed enough to feel a little stubborn. When he steps into the rec room, he realizes how much he does not associate with anyone else. The inmates are huddled in small groups, some around the TV, some playing a game or reading in silence, but everyone has someone, and Jared feels oddly out of place. He's been here long enough, but he's never really felt a need to socialize outside of his kitchen crew. Without them at his side comes a different kind of vulnerability, not unlike his first few days in Angola.

He squares his shoulders and lifts his chin, stretching to his full height to scare off anyone who thinks he's fair game just because he's by himself. No one pays him any attention. There's a cupboard against the wall with board games, all of which require at least one other person, but at the very bottom, he finds a puzzle. 500 pieces. That should keep him occupied. It's a picture of a farmhouse, with rolling green hills and farm animals dotted here and there. It looks as if it is a good few decades old; probably has been here forever, gathering dust. He sits at one of the large tables and gets to work, sorting out all the edge pieces first. There's a method to his madness, and he gets quite engrossed in sorting by shape, then color.

"Why'd your friends abandon you, Jared?"

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath before opening them again. Pellegrino sits down next to him, his feet pulled up, toes resting on the seat of Jared's chair.

"Leave me alone."

"No man is an island." Pellegrino starts sorting through the box where Jared has put all the center pieces. "You look like you need a friend."

"You're not a friend."

Pellegrino gasps, puts a hand on his chest. "That hurts. I'm trying here, man."

"Don't."

"I see how it is. Dear old Jensen has filled your head with ugly tales about me, huh?" He leans in until Jared can feel his breath on his cheek. "Have you ever wondered why he's so keen to keep you away from me?"

"Because you're a dick."

Pellegrino hums. "Maybe. Or maybe he knows I'm the only one in this place who could answer every last question you've ever had about him. And I'm guessing you have a few."

Jared's hand falters for a moment, before he goes back to sorting pieces. "I wouldn't trust a word you say anyway."

"And yet you trust him? And all the ugly things he told you about me? I'm no less honest than he is, Jared."

He doesn't trust Jensen. Not today. Not right now. But if nothing else, he knows he trusts Pellegrino even less. With his smarmy voice, making every word sound like a note from a song he doesn't want to listen to.

"Jared, Jared, Jared. So predictable. You see a pretty pair of eyes, a nice ass, and caution just goes flying out the window, huh?"

"You don't know a fucking thing about me."

"Maybe not. But I know more than a fucking thing about Jensen. Do you even know what he's in for?"

Jared snorts, glances at Pellegrino from the corner of his eye as he fits together the side of the farmhouse. "Of course I do."

"Ah, you know the crime, but I'm guessing you don't know the specifics. Maybe you know he killed a couple dozen people, but I doubt you know the details of the crime he got done for?"

"I'm getting bored of listening to you," Jared points at him with a puzzle piece, doing his best to channel every shred of anger and letting it pour out of his eyes. He may not inspire the same level of caution as Jensen, or Pellegrino himself, but he's not a pushover either. "Go annoy someone else."

Pellegrino wriggles his eyebrows. "Sure thing, Jared." He gets up slowly, stretches his arms over his head like a cat. He pats a heavy hand on Jared's shoulder. "I'll be seeing you around, buddy."

As if there is anywhere else either one of them can go. When lunch time rolls around, Jared carefully organizes the bits of puzzle he's managed to put together back in the box and hides it in the back of the cupboard away from everyone. He's on a mission, and he will complete that thing if it's the last thing he does. Plenty of time. Plus the therapist said it's good to have goals. She didn't specify.

Sandwiches taste worse on the weekend, and he tells himself it's because other people made them. It may be because weekend sandwiches are made with leftover bread that has been sitting in the kitchen for too long and now sticks to the roof of his mouth. He eats by himself, and if he's entirely honest, it's lonely. The rest of the canteen moves around him, but he feels removed from it, a spectator rather than a participant. Everyone else with their part to play, fitting together or not at all, but part of a larger whole. He's the odd piece out. He's getting up to put his tray back, when a loud buzzer startles him out of his less-than-pleasant train of thoughts.

A guard starts yelling instantly, but his voice is drowned out by the inmates, loud voices shouting over him. A little spark of color in an otherwise dreary picture. He looks around for any indication of what's going on, when three other guards join the two already in the canteen. They exchange a few hurried words before one of them turns to the canteen.

"Everyone! Shut up. Get to your cells."

Oh, this can't be good. The guards disperse, arranging inmates to head back to the cell block. He falls in line with the other inmates, a couple of whom need some extra persuasion to quit shouting and get going. He ends up a few steps behind Rich, and he hurries to catch up to him.

"What's going on?"

Rich shrugs. "Lockdown."

"Why?"

"Fuck if I know."

When Jared gets to his cell, Jensen is already sitting on his bunk, watching the inmates walk past with lazy interest. His hands are balled into fists by his sides, but that seems to be his new normal these last few days.

"What happened?"

Jensen doesn't look up at him. "Lockdown."

Jared rolls his eyes, turning around when the bars slide shut behind him. He stands in front of them, eyes trailing over the last few stragglers, an annoyed guard motioning for them to hurry up and get to their cells. Rich sits on Misha's bunk, his back to the block, apparently uninterested in what's happening around them.

It takes a good half hour for the noise to settle down enough that Jared can pick up some of the conversation coming from his next door neighbors. Jensen ignores him the entire time, but he's not reading a book. Maybe he's listening for news, too.

"Motherfucker. So he decides to kiss the world goodbye, and we pay the price?"

"Probably an accident. Dumb fuck can't even do that right."

Jensen clears his throat. "Are you going to stand there for the rest of the day?"

"Got nothing better to do." He strains to pick up the rest of the conversation next door.

"Fucking junkies, man."

Jared frowns. Junkies? He finally turns around to Jensen, his heart beating a little faster than necessary. "Jensen?"

"Yes, Jared?" The patience sounds fake, forced, artificially flavored.

"What did you do?"

Jensen tilts his head to look up at him, his face carefully blank, but Jared catches a glint of something; leftover embers of a burning adrenaline rush. It's in the tapping of Jensen's foot against the frame of his bunk, the way he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and chews on it, the way his eyes flit from Jared to the cell block and back.

"I handled it."

Jared lets his head fall back against the bars, his skin too hot. "Robson?"

"Was there anyone else in the market for accidental homicide?"

"Pellegrino?"

Jensen blinks, once, twice, swallows. Starts to say something and stops again. He runs a hand over his face, and Jared's eyes are drawn to thin red lines on the backs of Jensen's hands. As if someone scratched him. "I can't kill Mark." His voice is quiet, resignation thick in four simple words. As if he's spent hours turning them over in his mind before coming to the conclusion.

Jared pushes away from the bars and sits down in front of the bunks, his back against the wall, arms on his pulled-up knees. Like it's fucking story time he's getting ready for. "Why not?"

"Just leave it, alright? I'm not in the mood."

"Guess murder zaps one's energy." It's not bitten out, not even meant to a jab or anything, hell, he's... relieved. Even if he doesn't fully understand what happened, or what made Jensen change his mind about "cleaning everyone's messes". No, it wasn't meant to set Jensen off at all, but apparently it was the wrong thing to say.

"Jesus fuck, Jared. Can you just let me have this one thing I can tick off my to-do list, for five fucking minutes?"

"Hey, I was just-"

"I don't fucking care. I asked you not to go anywhere by yourself. Then you go and play fucking board games with him?"

"I wasn't... are you spying on me?"

Jensen scoots forward until his feet are on the floor and he looms over Jared. "You are in a prison. Everyone knows everything everyone does in here all the time." Every word spoken slowly, emphasized for Jared's benefit.

"Yeah, except you. You can't even tell me why you're worried about him doing something."

"I told you," Jensen hisses, face flushed, as if it is taking some effort to keep his voice down. "Because he's a credible threat. Because I know that he would."

Jared gives him a doubtful look, throws some more gasoline on the fire, because hey, he's come this far, and he can't seem to stop the words coming out of his mouth. It's a little bit of fear and frustration, mixed in with a lot more of confusion and a gnawing feeling that he might be wrong about Jensen. He might be wrong about everything. And fuck if he doesn't even fully know what being wrong would entail at this point.

Jensen huffs out a breath that sounds nowhere near like a laugh. "He's been telling you things, huh? Putting doubts in your head?"

"Didn't need him to do that for me." He hates himself, he really fucking does, but he can't think straight anymore. It's all just too fucking much.

"You can't trust him." It comes out almost more like a plea than a command. Almost.

"He said the same thing about you."

Jensen is on his feet in an instant, hands fisting in Jared's shirt pulling him upright with more ease than Jared thinks is reasonable. He presses Jared into the wall, face too close, eyes narrowed. "What the fuck does it take?"

Jared tries to pull out of Jensen's grip, but his hands may as well be iron keeping him in place. They press against his chest, making his breaths come out more shallow, and his head starts to spin. He tries to blink the images away, because he is not going back to the mess he was a few weeks ago. He refuses. His throat tightens, as if Jensen's hands are squeezing around his airway when he knows they're not. His ears are buzzing, and he needs Jensen to stop. Right now.

"What's the murder you got done for, Jen?" It's the one thing that filters into his mind, pieced together from hints, from pictures, from fragments of conversations, and the silence of questions not answered. The thing that has been sitting heavily on the back of his tongue for several days as he watched Jensen spin in and out of his orbit. It's the question he doesn't want the answer to anymore, because a horrible, dark part of him that he's been trying to silence already suspects the answer.

Jensen exhales sharply, eyes closing for a moment before he opens them again. When he does, Jared is no longer looking at Jensen, his cellie. He knows he's looking at Jensen the hit man.

"You wanna know, hm?" Jensen's voice is calm, steady, as he nods as if to check. "I'll tell you." His fingers tighten in the fabric of Jared's shirt, his breath hot on Jared's face. "That other guy in the pictures? That's Chris. But the million dollar question, the thing you have refused to let go, _still_ refuse to let go..." He raises an eyebrow, as if he's waiting for Jared to ask, one last time.

Jared's voice is barely more than a whisper. "What happened to him?"

The corners of Jensen's mouth twitch, his eyes searching Jared's face before he answers. "I loved him. Loved him for twenty years. Loved him like he was my brother. Then... not so much like a brother." He licks his lips to wet them, leaning in so he's right next to Jared's ear. "We had an argument. It got ugly. It didn’t matter, because I still loved him. And then one night, I put a gun against his head, and I pulled the trigger."

Jared's eyes must have closed at some point because the world doesn't spin, but the blood rushes from his head down, Jensen the only thing holding him up. When he opens them again, Jensen's smiling face is still too close to him.

"And that," Jensen nods his head, "is why I am here."


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Candygramme, thank you for your encouragement and support in helping me finish this, for picking up on my random British phrases, and all the commas <3
> 
> I’d also like to thank everyone who has read, left kudos, or commented on this story. I'm blown away by all your lovely words. You put a smile on my face every time and I greatly appreciate it. It feels a bit like losing an internal organ that this is finally fully posted. Thanks for your patience, I hope you enjoy the last chapter!

As soon as the words are out, Jensen lets go of him as if Jared burnt him. They hang heavily in the space between them, sucking the air out of their cell as Jared tries to scrape the shreds of his soul off the floor. 

Jensen snorts, cold eyes fixing him, pinning him to the wall. "Yeah, you do seem better with that knowledge in your pocket."

Jared shakes his head, as if he wants to shake the clouds from his mind, but they aren't there for once. The soft haze he uses to brush over every part of Jensen that he can't reconcile with what he wants Jensen to be, is gone. Facts stand out harshly, inescapable, like a roadblock he can't circle around. "I don't believe you." It sounds small in the silence of their cell.

"Which part?"

"That's not business. You said..."

"I said a lot of things, Jared. You made it too easy. You're just so damn gullible." One corner of Jensen's mouth is pulled up as he lets his eyes roam over Jared easily. "So wide-eyed and naive. Never listening to anyone, because, what, you thought you knew better? Thought you knew _me_ better?"

Jared closes his eyes, but he can't block out the sound of Jensen's words, each one of them a cut to his already raw skin, pulling out ugly things he doesn't want to look at. He tries to cling to the contradictions between what Jensen is saying and what he's done, even as he isn't sure whether he's trying to make himself believe it, or Jensen. "You wouldn't. You were worried about me, and I'm not even sure you like me, let alone..."

He feels Jensen's face move closer again, feels his warm breath on his cheek with a shiver he can't contain.

"You've got selective hearing. You know, deep down. You know I'm telling the truth."

He does. Jared swallows, steels himself before opening his eyes. He feels oddly empty, as if everything he's been feeling has been poured out of him, two sets of footsteps trailing through the mess. Without another word, he pushes past Jensen and lifts himself up onto his bunk. He curls up on his side, his back to Jensen as he tries to disappear into the mattress. There's a very thin thread keeping him attached to his sanity, as if any small jerk in the wrong direction will severe it, and he doesn't want to think about what will happen when it does. He pulls the sheet over his head, and yes, he knows it's childish to hide, but he can't stand the feel of Jensen's eyes on him right now. Jensen, who made him laugh, looked out for him, gave him the best sex Jared's ever had. Jensen, who killed the last person he loved.

He stays awake for a long time, keeping his mind carefully blank until the effort becomes too much, and he falls asleep. Throughout the night, he keeps waking up, Jensen's confession echoing off the walls, flirting against his skull, Jensen's smirk, cold eyes covering his skin like ice water. Every time he wakes up drenched in sweat, something not entirely removed from tears stinging behind his eyes.

The lockdown had drifted from his thoughts, which is why it takes him a moment to register that the guard shining a flashlight into their cell and telling them to get up in a gruff voice should be a surprise. As soon as his brain clicks, the tightness returns to his chest, like a coat that's too tight, squeezing him in all the wrong places. At least, if nothing else, he's not going to have to spend the foreseeable future trapped in his cell with Jensen. His lack of sleep weighs him down, but he still slips off his bunk and out of his cell without sparing a glance to Jensen.

He showers across from Rich, who mumbles a "morning" at him, but otherwise opts to ignore both of them. Jensen is a suffocating presence behind him, so he pulls his thoughts to the water, lets it wash the sticky cling of nightmares off him and down the drain, half-wishing he could wash away with it. The shower makes him feel slightly more awake, but it doesn't fix the looming prospect of a whole day in the kitchen with Jensen.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Nemo," Rich comments as they enter the kitchen.

"Yeah, something like that." He suddenly wishes Misha was there. Misha would know what to do. Misha, of course, is in the hole thanks to Jensen.

The eggs sizzle on the grill in front of him, and he lets the hiss hypnotize him, tries to lose himself in something easy and menial, because if he stops to examine the whirlwind in the back of his mind, he's not sure his legs will keep him upright.

"So, guess you heard about Robson then?"

When Jared looks over at him, Rich is scratching the wet curls at the back of his head, pensive look on his face. "Yeah. He's dead."

Rich hums. "Heroin overdose, apparently."

Had it been any other day, Jared would have snorted, shook his head in mild amusement perhaps. "Isn't that just poetic." Is all he can offer instead.

"Yeah," Rich agrees, the word dragging out a little, and he tilts his head as if he's trying to find something on Jared's face. "Your boy's got style, gotta give him that."

"He's not my boy." And why does that make him sad? Why can't he just sound bitter? Betrayed? Why does it have to be mixed in with this completely out of place sense of loss? He lost nothing, because Jensen had never been who Jared thought he was.

"Look, Jared. I get it. Murder is... wrong," Rich's throat seems to squeeze around the last word as if he can barely get it out. "But that fucker would have-"

"I agree. I'm glad he's dead."

"Then what's got your panties in a twist?"

"Mr Speight!"

They both turn around to find Dugas a few feet behind them. Jared's heart drops to his knees, but Dugas doesn't look as if he overheard them. 

"Yessir?"

"Good news. Well... yeah, I guess it is. Mr Collins will be back shortly."

"Sir?" Rich raises a confused eyebrow.

"Overcrowding. It has been an eventful weekend. He was one of the... lesser offenders."

"Oh, thanks. Sir."

Dugas gives them a brief nod and leaves the kitchen.

Rich and Jared serve breakfast, and Rich is almost back to his normal self. He greets every inmate with a variation of an insult and an actual greeting, accompanied by an excitable flick of his serving spoon that is slowly covering Jared in egg juice.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" Jared grumbles, his own mood standing out in stark contrast to Rich's.

"All is well in the world, Nemo. It's a beautiful day, and I do believe the sun is shining."

"You finally cracked, huh?"

"Ain't nothing cracked but the eggs," Rich smiles broadly, only faltering slightly when Pellegrino is in front of them. He holds back on offering Pellegrino any of his sunshine.

"Good morning, Jared."

Jared rolls his eyes, dumps two sausages on Pellegrino's plate unceremoniously. The last face he wanted to see this morning. Except perhaps Jensen's.

"Why so grumpy? Did Jen hurt your feelings?"

And fucking then some. His jaw clenches painfully tight, tension spreading up his temples to his head. Rich adds eggs to his tray, but Pellegrino doesn't seem inclined to keep moving.

"Run along, Oliver Twist, no more porridge for you."

Pellegrino's eyes widen before shifting to Rich, looking him up and down as if he's never seen him before, and he doesn't quite believe anyone would speak to him in this manner. Jared ducks his head to hide a smirk, his jaw unclenching when Pellegrino does just that.

He eats in the back of the kitchen with Rich, and even if he feels like he needs to punch something until his knuckles bleed, or perhaps scream until his throat rips, he welcomes the company. Too much time alone means too much time to think. After breakfast, Jared grabs a couple of large bags of vegetables from the box-sized freezers in the back of the kitchen and they're starting to prepare lunch, both of them chopping a mountain of vegetables that are intended for an industrial sized pot of chili when Misha returns.

Jared jumps at the sudden presence behind him, but Misha ignores him, coming up behind Rich to lean his chin on Rich's shoulder instead. The swift movements of Rich's knife falter, and from where Jared is standing he can see Rich melt into Misha.

"Rich..." Misha mumbles, his voice tired. 

Rich half-turns to look at Misha, eyes scanning pale skin and dark smudges under Misha's eyes. His face splits into a grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners, as if he finds something he'd been looking for for a while. "Hi Mish. Missed ya." He leans his forehead against Misha's, lets his lips graze lightly over Misha's cheek, and Jared looks away. 

His breakfast sits heavily in his stomach, a pang of something thick tugging at him at the sight of the two of them. All the ugliness and anger from the last week melted away just like that. Must be nice.

"Nemo? Would you mind..." Rich gestures at the vegetables, and Jared only just resists the urge to roll his eyes. He doesn't begrudge them their happy reunion, not really.

"Yeah, yeah go. Kiss and make up. Stay away from the produce."

"Only prepackaged food," Rich declares, his fingers curled tight around Misha's, as his other hand rests on his own chest. "Scout's honor."

"Gross."

They disappear in the direction of the stockroom and Jared finds himself alone. Murray is rummaging around near the dishwashers on the other side of the kitchen, and fuck knows where Jensen is. Somehow, he's itching for a drink. That is how he would usually deal with anything like this. Not that he has ever had to deal with anything remotely like this. The only thing that comes close is when his momma died, and he hadn't really handled that exceptionally well, either. There had been copious amounts of alcohol and a similar flavor though perhaps not scope of bad decisions involved. It seems like a lifetime and a half ago, so far removed from all of this.

He wonders what his momma would have said about him being with Jensen, even if he would use "being" in the loosest sense of the word before yesterday, and definitely today. The first shock would have been Jensen being the furthest thing from the cute, bouncy, girly girls he used to crush on. He can't quite picture her response to that revelation, but he likes to think she would be happy for him. That is, of course, if she didn't know about the whole in prison for murder thing. He can hear his teenaged voice in his head now, pleading that, no really mom, you don't know him, he really is a good guy. His teenaged self sounds an awful lot like his present self, or the part of him that desperately wants to believe it. Some people never fucking learn.

Rich and Misha don't make a reappearance until just before lunch, and when they do, they look like they did a bit more than kiss and make up. Misha's hair is standing up as if he put his fingers in a power socket, his lips bruised dark, and Rich isn't much better, curls tangled at the back of his neck, light sheen of sweat making his skin glow. Misha has his sweatpants on backwards, and Jared realizes they are wearing each other's shirts. 

He huffs out a laugh. "You boys have fun?"

Rich wiggles his eyebrows and Misha offers a small smile that may be aiming for apologetic but misses the mark by about 600 yards. 

"Hi Jared," Misha says, as if he hadn't seen Jared upon his return an hour and a half ago. "You want me to serve lunch with you?"

"I got it."

All three of them spin around at the sound of Jensen's voice. He stands by the shelves, expression hard, looking past them at the wall. 

Jared starts to open his mouth to say something then thinks better of it. Let Jensen and Misha do it, he doesn't even want to stand next to Jensen for the time it takes to serve lunch. He takes off his apron and grabs a sandwich, retreating to the back of the kitchen by himself. As soon as Murray sees him approach his table he starts to shake his head at Jared.

"Come on, man. Enough with the escapism. Leave me alone."

"I just wanna-"

"I don't care. That asshole is dead, everything can go back to normal now, and normal means you eat with the Brady Bunch and stay the hell out of my corner."

If only things were back to normal. Jared swallows down the wistfulness that bubbles to the surface. There is no going back to any of that. He's not that eager to get in Murray's way, though, so he grudgingly returns to their table. Rich is stretched out in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on another chair as he chews his sandwich.

"What did he do, Nemo? If it ain't Robson, what is it?"

Jared sits down heavily. "I don't wanna talk about it."

Misha joins them a few minutes later, but Jensen doesn't; probably choosing to eat at the counter rather than be anywhere near him. Jared wonders if Murray would kick Jensen out of his corner too.

"Hey uh, Jared?" Misha starts, voice hesitant. "Sorry for being a dick. I guess I went a little off the tracks there for a while."

"Don't worry about it," Jared says easily. "You had good reason. Sorry Jensen being an asshole landed you in the hole." He doesn't know why he's apologizing for something Jensen did, but it feels appropriate. After all, it was Jared who had injected Jensen into their lives, the least he can do is own up to the shit Jensen left behind.

"You're joking, right?" Rich says, sandwich suspended halfway to his mouth, mayonnaise dripping down onto his tray.

"No. I guess it's not really my apology to make, but still." He watches Misha and Rich exchange a look.

"Jared..." Misha leans forward, keeping his voice quiet. "He did it on purpose."

"Yeaaaah, obviously. He's an asshole like that."

Rich whistles through his teeth. "For someone who claims to have a brain you can be remarkably stupid."

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Irritation spikes under his skin. 

"He needed Misha out of the cell block, Nemo," Rich says slowly, "the lid was gonna blow off this thing before he had time to take care of it, so he got Misha to beat him up so Misha would be sent to the hole and be out of harm's way..."

Jared blinks, feels something tickle up his throat, and then he's laughing. It's slightly hysterical and laced with more than a hint of cynicism, but he can't stop. Every time his eyes land on Misha and Rich, their faces completely shocked at his outburst, he starts again. Finally, he catches his breath enough to speak.

"Man, you guys are hilarious."

"I'm not kidding." Rich frowns at him. "You think I would have just sat on my ass and let this happen?"

Jared shakes his head. Sure, he'd thought it odd that Rich hadn't jumped on Jensen, but this... this is quite the spin on it. "He really got you good, huh? You can't be serious."

"I'm confused," Misha says, "you were team Jensen. He's not that bad, let's give him a chance..."

"Yeah, and you two _weren't_."

"I think you lost sight of the bigger picture, Nemo. The throes of passion will do that."

"You were right the first time. He is dangerous, and nothing he says is true. He played all of us." The bitterness of his words mixes with coffee on his tongue. As if saying it out loud, admitting it to Rich and Misha makes it more true than he could have convinced himself in his own head.

"And yet, Robson is dead, and Misha is back," Rich muses, raising an eyebrow as if he's adding things up. "I gotta say, that is about the best outcome we coulda hoped for. Almost like the whole thing was by design."

*

Jared goes a full two days without saying a word to Jensen, which is impressive given their constant close proximity. He finds he has nothing to say. Even the motivation to poke at Jensen's buttons to see which one will make him snap is gone. No, he hasn't quite stopped caring, though he resolutely tells himself that he has. And if every now and then when he accidentally catches Jensen's eyes across the kitchen, or when he hears Jensen sigh in his sleep, or when he can't stop his eyes from being drawn to Jensen in the shower, his heart flutters insistently, and his fingertips feel warmer, he's calling it healthy apprehension. Adrenaline, fight or flight finally kicking in. Spectacularly late.

Rich and Misha don't help, at all. He knows it's childish and petty of him, but every time he finds them making out in the corridor to the stockroom, every casual brush of their fingers, every meaningful look shared, and every time he just knows they are playing footsie under the table, he wants to throw a tray of food at them. It isn't fair of him, and he is honestly happy that they are happy, but it would be nice if it wouldn't be rubbed in his face the whole fucking day. And night. Maybe it's because Jared has trouble falling asleep, and more trouble staying asleep, but he's getting a little too familiar with the ins and outs of what Rich and Misha get up to when they think the cell block is asleep.

He's an odd stew of frustrated, angry, depressed and horny, and it's doing absolutely nothing for his patience. He walked out of his therapist appointment yesterday, after she asked him why he was so tense, and did it have anything to do with him thinking about the future? He'd stood up, loomed over her even though she seemed unimpressed yet intrigued, and he had demanded to be taken back to his cell block. She hadn't tried to persuade him to stay, just calmly thanked him for coming, said she'd see him next week.

By lunch time on Wednesday, he needs a change, needs to not be around Rich and Misha constantly, so he starts setting up the service counter, knowing full well that Jensen will join him. It seems Jensen has taken over one half of all serving duties, usually with either Rich or Misha, though Murray makes a random appearance on occasion. 

"What are you doing?" Jensen's icy voice comes from behind him.

"What's it look like?"

"Murray will-"

"I need a change of scenery," Jared says, allowing his eyes to brush over Jensen's for a moment, before going back to his trays. When Jensen comes to stand next to him, Jared's body betrays him, instinctively trying to lean closer to Jensen, to smell the soap on his skin, feel the warmth radiating off him. It would be so easy to give in, so easy to let himself fall into a dream once more, even if just for a little while. He shakes his head as if he can shake Jensen out of it, focuses on the sandwiches in front of him. Jensen works quietly next to him, setting up, moving the big pots of soup in place. 

Jared's eyes land on Jensen's hands, strong, tanned, fingers working quickly, efficiently. An image of those fingers wrapped around his dick, squeezing him just the right side of painfully tight, of his come spilling over those fingers flashes through his mind, and he inhales shakily.

They serve inmates in silence, but Jared remains hyperaware of how close Jensen is to him. Perhaps the closest he's been since he told Jared exactly who he was. If Jared had entertained a small flame of hope that he could shock his system into forgetting about Jensen, forgetting what his skin felt like, what the sound of Jensen's laugh was like, he was sorely mistaken. It is entirely too tempting to let all the ugliness fade into the background and only focus on what he wants to remember. Only the good things.

"Ah, my favorite duo back in action."

Jared rolls his eyes at Pellegrino, wishes he could beat the smarmy smile off his face. 

"You know, Jared, Jen's become a difficult man to talk to, what with you hanging around him all the time, sucking up all his attention."

Jared throws a meat sandwich on Pellegrino's tray, his eyes narrowing in disgust. "Oh, don't worry, Pellegrino. He's all yours."

Jensen's feet shift, fingers closing tightly around the soup ladle. 

"Ohhh," Pellegrino exclaims, smile splitting his face as he focuses his attention on Jensen. "You fucked up, huh, Jen? Whatcha do? Tell him the ugly truth? Let all your dirty little secrets out of the closet?"

Jensen slops soup into Pellegrino's bowl, but he doesn't say anything. A quick glance from the corner of his eye tells Jared Jensen looks bored, entirely detached from the situation. Two can play that game, he can care even less than Jensen does. 

"I really can't say I'm surprised, Jen. You break everything you touch." Pellegrino winks, then saunters off.

Turns out serving food is not quite the distraction he had been looking for. He eats silently with Rich and Misha, just barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes at how close they sit to each other, how subtle they think they are being, holding hands under the table. Nauseating. He goes through the motions and keeps to himself, and by the time his head touches his mattress at the end of the day the tiredness has settled into his bones. The lights aren't even out yet, but he's fed up with the day. Fed up with everything.

This is what the next however many years are going to be like. The two of them sharing space, or a lack thereof, ignoring each other. That is unless Jensen finally decides he really could do with the extra space and offs Jared. Hell, it may be preferential to this. Ok, so with the tiredness comes a touch of melodrama, fueled by the desperation, the caginess that doesn't leave him alone. It's the shadow in the corner of his eye, the eyes prickling on his back, the heavy weight sitting in the back of his throat. He can't shake it off, and there is nowhere to fucking run.

If nothing else, at least Jensen isn't trying to make conversation. Really, there isn't anything more to say. Nothing could be said that would drown out the truth. 

Throughout the night, he wakes up from Jensen's movements. From the sound of it, he manages to get tangled in his sheets every half hour. More than once Jensen wakes up with a gasp, and after the third time Jared is staring a hole into the ceiling trying to talk himself out of saying something or peeking over the edge of his bunk. What could possibly have Jensen so worked up? Whatever happened to him bitching about Jared keeping him up by being too "angsty"?

"No, please don't."

The words are an urgent whisper piercing the hissing and huffing of the pipes in the wall, the snores welling around him. Jared rolls over slowly, voice of reason in the back of his mind telling him to stay put and go back to sleep, but he muffles it, something stronger urging him to look. He leans over the edge of his bunk, fingers clenched around the metal frame above his head to keep him from toppling off the bunk. 

Jensen is stretched out on his back, feet twisted in the sheets, the light from the corridor picking up the sheen of sweat on his skin. His legs twitch, jerk, strong muscles straining against invisible hands holding him down. His chest heaves shallowly, parted lips drawing in breaths too quickly. Both of his arms are over his head, his face turned into one of them, a painful expression twisting his features. As Jared's eyes adjust to the dark, he can see Jensen's lips are moving silently, as if he's pleading with someone still.

Seeing him like this does funny things to Jared, a desire to reach out and touch, soothe, fix, stronger than his resolve. He slides off his bunk before he can change his mind, holding his breath when his feet find the floor. Jensen shows no indication of waking, so he crouches down to get a better look. 

"I'm sorry, sorry, I'm sorry," Jensen whispers, his throat working around the words, one foot pulling up to his knee in a quick motion, followed by the other, almost as if he's trying to curl up into himself. Disappear.

Jared's fingers itch to reach out, wake Jensen up and shake him out of whatever he's being sucked into, but he doesn't. Doesn't really want Jensen to wake up and know Jared was watching him, heard him say things he is certain Jensen wouldn't want to share. And if he's completely honest, he doesn't want to get sucked back in. Doesn't want to become the next item on Jensen's to do list, even if he sometimes wonders if he hasn't already made it onto that list. And still...

Jensen's hands grapple for purchase above his head, finding the metal frame, fingers curling around it tightly until his knuckles whiten. The light from outside their cell illuminates his skin, catches a thin scar running up the side of his ribs. Jared hadn't noticed it before, but the whiter line against tanned skin is unmistakable. It looks like a stab wound, or more like a stab and slice. He shivers in the chilly air, his knees cramping enough that he sinks down to the floor, shuffling closer to the bed until he can almost feel Jensen's strained breathing on his face.

Even now, tangled up in a nightmare, sweaty and flustered, Jensen looks beautiful. Even now, Jared only just manages to stop himself from reaching out, from soothing, touching, kissing his sweat-slicked skin. His stomach tightens as he tries to stomp down on the feeling, the _need_ to comfort, to take away some of the things Jensen carries with him every day, to be the person who makes Jensen smile, makes him forget, if only for a little while. He runs a hand through his hair, takes a deep breath that does nothing to calm him. When did all of this become something other than a cat and mouse game? Something more than getting laid because he was bored, or horny?

He chews on his lip, eyes drifting over Jensen, settling on his closed eyes moving quickly under the lids, thick lashes a stark contrast against his cheeks. "Fucking idiot," he mumbles to himself. Self-deception is the perfect coping mechanism, and he's had a crash course in the skill since he came here. Who better to lie to him than himself? Unfortunately, the truth is as evident as this feeling crawling under his skin, that finally has him stand up slowly and crawl back into his bunk. That has him lean out of his bunk, his hand reaching down until he can lightly brush his fingers over Jensen's shoulder. He quickly pulls his hand back, just a second before he hears Jensen gasp, the covers rustling and his breathing changing. He listens for several minutes as Jensen's breathing slows down, and he shifts around to get comfortable. 

The truth is, it has never been anything less.

*

"Can you guys just get a fucking room already?" It may have a bit to do with his lack of sleep, or perhaps his troubling realizations that fueled said lack of sleep, but Jared is thoroughly out of patience the next day and more than content to take it out on whatever target is closest to him. Today, that target is Rich and Misha and their ongoing not so subtle PDA.

"Who pissed in your oatmeal, Nemo?" Rich's voice is muffled slightly from where his lips are pressed to Misha's neck. They're just inside the corridor leading to the stockroom, pressed together, and being both quiet and out of the way, but Jared still saw them when he took his half-eaten breakfast to the trash, and it's as if seeing them together makes him miss Jensen's presence next to him more.

He shakes his head and throws his leftovers in the trash with a little too much enthusiasm, the plastic bowl and plate following. A headache is building behind his eyes, lazy throb in time with his heartbeat, and he distantly wonders if Angola has such a thing as calling in sick to work. Today would be a good day to spend by himself in his cell, away from everything and everyone he doesn't want to be around.

"Jared?"

"I'm fine, Misha," he grinds out, looking around the kitchen as he tries to find something to do that is a solo task. Murray has the right idea with his fucking dishwashers, as damn perfect as isolation can get in here.

"Yes, I can tell. Except I don't think it's me and Rich you're really pissed at."

Jared ignores him, busies himself with getting a large pot of water to boil to start something he will stubbornly label soup. Misha hovers next to him, then starts laying out vegetables. It's a few minutes before he tries again.

"He really did just try to get me out of harm's way." Misha's voice is low, not carrying beyond Jared's ears.

"Even if he did, it doesn't excuse all the other shit he's done."

"You already knew what he did," Misha offers, as he slowly starts to cut the vegetables into small chunks. "Or, some of it. Come on, man, you're not stupid, how does all of this just pass you by?"

"He's a murderer and a master manipulator. Yeah, you're right, that did pass me by, but I've come back to my senses now."

"Not what I'm talking about. Sure, he's both of those things, but I think you're missing a few pieces as well..."

"Oh, good, there's more shit I don't know? Fantastic, it just keeps getting better."

Misha puts the knife down in favor of leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest as he considers Jared. "Jared, you do know where you are, right?"

Jared snorts. "Yeah, the guards, iron bars, and shit food gave it away."

"I'm going to ignore the insult to my food," Misha says, tilting his head. "Don't you think things have gone quite well for you, considering you're in prison, and not really one of the nicest prisons in the country, and you had zero connections when you got here, plus it was your first time?"

Jared adds some noodles to the pot, stirring slowly. "Quite well?" He doesn't manage to keep the disbelief out of his voice. "I got a freaking yeti for a cellmate, who tried to make me his bitch on day 1. Then I got Angola's Next Top Psychopath. My accomplice was put to death. I got stabbed in a riot, damn near lost my mind in the hole, should I go on?"

"You only had that cellmate for a week or so, and he didn't get a chance to do much damage. You got to speak to your accomplice and go to his funeral. You went to therapy and actually have a pretty good handle on your mind now. You survived said riot and stabbing, and you fell in love with that psychopath." Misha throws him a sympathetic smile. "Should I go on?"

Jared carefully sidesteps the last remark, focusing on the rest instead. "It has been a shit show, beginning to end. Whatever got slightly better, or not as awful as it could have been, was no thanks to him."

Misha hums, goes back to chopping. "You think it is prison policy to remove an inmate who was beaten to a pulp by another inmate not just from that cell but from the entire block?"

"He tried to force me to suck him off."

"That's a typical Tuesday around here. You think they let inmates have someone "there when they wake up" when they get sent to the infirmary?"

Jared narrows his eyes, then remembers Misha being there with him when he had a flashback and was taken to the infirmary. He remembers thinking at the time that was very considerate of whoever had let him. "I dunno, maybe they felt generous."

Misha raises an eyebrow, but he's not done yet. "You think newbies start off working in the kitchen?"

"You guys asked for me, you and Rich decide who gets hired."

"No, Jared, we really don't."

"But Jensen said-"

"Of course he did."

"I don't understand..." He hears the words, the implications, but his brain refuses to piece them together into something meaningful. 

"All of it. Every good thing that has happened to you, whether you thought it was actually good or not, all of it was Jensen leaning on people and pulling strings."

"You don't know that," Jared shakes his head, clinging to his current worldview even as Misha is chipping away at the foundation. 

"Yeah, I do. I didn't quite understand why at first, or..." Misha winces. "I think... he... had something to do with me getting out of E-wing and working the kitchen too, I'm not sure, but it's another inexplicable development that would take fairly little effort on his part."

"But why? He doesn't give a fuck about anyone but himself."

"You don't really believe that." Not a question, and Jared grinds his teeth in annoyance.

"If he had done all of those things he would have taken credit for it."

"Not everything he does is for the sake of fucking with your head."

"Then what?"

Misha rolls his eyes. "Look, it may not look like you want it to, or what you think it should be, but did it ever occur to you that maybe he's not as entirely unaffected by you as he'd like you to believe?"

No. No that had most definitely not occurred to him. "No. He's playing a game. Just because we can't see the end game yet, doesn't mean he doesn't have one. Besides, if you think he's such a fucking guardian angel, then why tell me he's dangerous, and I should stay away from him?"

Misha exhales slowly, the cutting motion of his hand faltering slightly. When he looks up at Jared, Jared is shocked to find a hint of guilt lurking behind the blue of his eyes. "Because he's hard to pin down. He's... shit, I've been where your head's at, alright? It's hard to come across nice around here, and it's even more suspicious coming from him."

"My point exactly."

"Sure, he goes from kind to cold in .2 seconds, and his cold is fucking arctic, but he's done a lot of things that we know for sure really didn't have anything in it for him. If anything, he put himself at risk doing half those things."

"But he didn't even know me when Marcus... and he hadn't really met me either when I came back and started at the kitchen. It makes no sense, why would he do that for someone he didn't even know?"

"Are you asking me to explain the inner workings of Jensen Ackles's mind to you?" Misha sounds amused as he flicks his knife in the air in an almost zorro-esque manner. "I've gotten pretty good at figuring people out, but I'm not _that_ good."

Jared exhales a shaky breath, his noodles all but forgotten on the stove. "That why you kept pushing me to talk to him?"

"Hey, if anyone has the answers it's him, and if he's in any way inclined to provide answers, I'd bet my pudding cup that it would be to you."

"So now what? I mean... fuck, Mish, he told me about this guy he used to-"

"He told you about Chris," Misha nods, another small apologetic smile passing over his face as Jared shoots him an incredulous look. "Yeah, yeah, I know what you're gonna say. Yes, I knew. But come on, man, does his story really add up?"

"If it's not true, why say it? Why would he want me to think..."

"I'm guessing two parts self-destructive tendencies, and three parts him pushing you away so Pellegrino loses interest in you."

Jared crosses his arms over his chest, annoyance simmering under his skin like the watery soup on the stove. "So Jensen has been playing my guardian angel, while you have pretended you didn't know anything about anything this whole time?"

Misha smiles sweetly as he dumps his vegetables in the pot. "Some things you gotta figure out for yourself."

He's figuring things out, alright. For a guy who's had his entire world shift one way and then the other in the span of a few days, he is experiencing shockingly little vertigo. This last version, the one Misha painted for him, it feels less disorienting, less unsettling, and less as if the ground he was standing on had suddenly turned to lava, and his feet were on fire. This version... fits. Or, he can see how it fits, even if part of him wants to write it off as wishful thinking, or confirmation bias, or a desperate need to believe that Jensen isn't the person he would like Jared to think he is. And why? Why push to this point? To keep Jared safe?

Jared's eyes linger on Jensen's back during lunch, Jensen and Rich at the service counter, Rich his usual chatty self and Jensen his usual wound-too-tight self. Jared's mouth goes a little dry when his mind helpfully supplies ways in which he could help Jensen ease some of that tension, all of them with a basic requirement of Jensen being naked and within arms' reach. The realization that Jensen has spent essentially the whole time Jared had been here looking out for him, warms something inside him, even if he doesn't fully understand the motivation. It washes away some of the loneliness of the last few weeks, like an actual guardian angel had been looking over his shoulder and moving harm out of his way. Granted, a guardian angel who narrowly avoided death row, but Jared will take what he can get. 

"You haven't been keeping a very good eye on your boy, Jen." Pellegrino smirks, lets his eyes drift past Jensen to land on Jared. "He's looking awfully lonely these days."

"Not as lonely as you, Mark. And trust me, I'm keeping an eye. On both of you."

"Such a little voyeur, hm? I guess some things never change."

Even from where Jared is standing, he can hear Jensen growl, not that it does anything to wipe the smirk off Pellegrino's face. What is it with these two? Their weird interactions definitely seem to go beyond a work relationship gone sour. Fuck, Pellegrino really does seem to know more about Jensen than anyone in this place. He retreats to the back of the kitchen before Jensen catches him looking, again, and he spends the afternoon doing his job and sorting through the thoughts in his head. Maybe he should say something to Jensen tonight, try to make amends. Show Jensen that he isn't going to let himself be pushed away, no matter what he says, or how he twists a story. Maybe it will prompt Jensen to elaborate a little on that horrible admission that he'll never un-hear.

His new plan makes him feel a bit better, and by the time dinner rolls around, he feels lighter, as if it is only a little matter of time before he will have righted everything again. Halfway through dinner, Misha is picked up for his drug counseling session, Rich following, mumbling something about "bring your cellie to therapy day". Jared snorts, wondering what exactly that would entail, and how helpful bringing Rich to therapy would be. Then again, there probably isn't anything Rich wouldn't do for Misha, and after the last few days, such a session may help both of them. He finishes his own dinner quickly, eager to get the kitchen tidied up and get to his cell so he can talk with Jensen. He's thinking of what to say, and perhaps more importantly, what _not_ to say as he puts away leftovers and throws out anything that definitely cannot be repurposed. The kitchen and canteen grow quiet around him, and with it, his mind grows quiet and clearer.

Jensen is off doing something in the stockroom, and Murray is working the dishwasher on the far end of the kitchen with his headphones on. A shiny new thing he'd bought himself from the commissary earlier today; another barrier between himself and the outside world. It almost feels as if he is entirely alone for once, and Jared relishes in the feeling. He grabs a large tub of leftover dinner and carries it over to the freezer. He tries to open the lid with one hand but these things are probably older than he is, and they are heavier than the heaviest weight he can lift in the gym. He sets the tub on the other freezer, then undoes the latch and pulls the heavy lid up. His hand reaches for the tub when a heavy weight slams into him from behind, a hand closing over his mouth, the other pressing against his throat. 

For a moment, he is too frozen in shock to move, his brain short-circuiting and trying to make sense of what is happening. Fingers press into his neck and the world swims in and out of focus as his knees give out under him. A warm weight behind him holds him up, low voice in his ear.

"You know, Jared... Jen isn't the only one who knows how to make accidents happen."

Pellegrino. Jared tries to find his feet and struggle, but his legs feel like overcooked spaghetti.

"This freezer here, she's's a real beauty. See, it dates back from before they realized it is far too easy to get trapped in them. It doesn't have any of the security measures to prevent this yet." 

Pellegrino's breath is warm on his ear, and Jared's skin feels cold and clammy as he tries to focus on the words, tries to piece them together.

"One of these... it'll take about... hm, I'd say seven and a half minutes before you die of hypothermia. Or perhaps suffocation will get to you first. Either way, it'll be relatively quick."

His heartbeat is too slow, his body useless, sagging against Pellegrino, the freezing air drifting up, licking against his skin.

"I am sorry you got caught in the crossfire, Jared. It's not really about you. I just... I just want Jensen to find you, you know? Refresh his memory a bit."

The words make no sense, and then the world is tilting as he tips forward into the cold. Bleary eyes stare up at the ceiling, at Pellegrino's grin kaleidoscoping above him, and then a loud noise and black. Black, cold, nothing.

His surroundings bite into his skin, icicles clawing all over his body as if they are ripping him open and burrowing inside and he starts to shiver violently. 

_Focus focus focus_.

This is not good. The urge to curl in on himself and preserve his body heat is strong, but he reaches up a hand, tries to push against the lid of the freezer. It doesn't give him an inch. It's pitch black dark swallowing him up, and his thoughts are like clouds, drifting away from him in shapeless, unidentified blobs. The air around him is thin, as if he's high up on a mountain, and he can't draw in a full breath. He can barely move, curled up as he is, around bags of peas and carrots, sharp plastic edges cutting into him.

Not like this. He didn't survive all the shit in the last few weeks to go out like this, and before he even had a chance to talk to Jensen. This is not how it's supposed to go. Not how his story should end. The riot would have been more fair than this.

He lets out a shaky breath, banging a fist against the wall of the freezer, but it comes out more like a light knock. How did this happen?

His lungs feel as if they are being squeezed in a vice, and he gasps for air, watches little fireflies dance in front of him in the darkness. His last thought is for Jensen, as he wishes that Jensen not be the one who finds him.

*

Hours may have passed, but they can't have. He should be dead. Maybe he is dead.

"Jay, Jared. _Fuck_."

Hands are grabbing him, pulling him up, at least, he thinks they are. His skin is numb, thick, as if he's wrapped in a thick blanket of snow, the touch muffled. There's a flash of light, a blur above him, and hands running over his arms, fingers touching his face, his neck, something touching against his chest.

"Come on, Jay. Please. Don't fucking..."

He's dragged across the floor until he comes to a stop in front of what feels like a fire. His lungs are gasping for air, his skin burning, needles sinking into him. There's wetness on his cheeks. Everything is fragmented, and he's missing a frame every few seconds. 

"Jesus, Murray, get me some tea."

Footsteps by his head, and his eyes slip shut. He hopes no one accidentally steps on him. Sudden warmth covers him, hot breath on his neck, a wonderfully soothing, hard, heavy blanket pressing him into the floor, pushing all his scattered pieces back together.

"Shh, you're ok, you're gonna be fine." 

Hands rub over his arms, his shoulders, and the fog in his mind starts to dissipate. The warm blanket on top of him...

"J-Jen-sen?" He blinks a few times, more wetness leaking from his eyes, though he doesn't feel like he's crying.

Jensen's face comes into focus, his face the same color as the ceiling above his head, pupils blown wide swallowing up the green. "Yeah. Right here."

Jared nods, his arms pinned to his sides by Jensen's, who has stretched out on top of him. The blood starts flowing through him a little quicker, and it stings like needles. Pellegrino pushed him into a freezer. Fuck. He could've... but then Jensen... fuck. The thought of how close he came to not being alive anymore sends a shiver through him that makes Jensen shake on top of him. Lips press against his jaw, barely there, could be accidental, and Jensen's lips feel as if they've just touched a hot stove.

"H-how did you-" he swallows painfully, his throat scratchy dry as if he's spent a day in the hot sun without any water. "How did you know?"

"I..." Jensen chews on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing to the side before refocusing on Jared. "I was in the stockroom. And it just... fuck, I don't know, it all just clicked. Perfect storm. Rich and Misha being gone. Murray oblivious to the world. Mark mopping the canteen. Mark with all the guards in his pocket mopping the canteen." He pushes himself up a bit further so he can see Jared better, brows knitted together. "It was too damn quiet. And I realized... this is how I would do it. If I were him. This is when I would do it."

"So you're saying your hitman skills just saved my life?" Jared's voice is barely above a whisper, but Jensen seems to pick up on the teasing undertone. His shoulders sag a little, tight frown creasing his forehead easing ever so slightly, replaced with an intensity in the green of his eyes that makes Jared's chest feel too tight for a different reason.

The moment is broken when Murray sets a large cup of tea on the floor next to them. "He gonna be ok?"

Jensen sits up slowly, tilting his head to look at Murray. "Yeah. I think so." He helps Jared in an upright position, leaning heavily against the kitchen cupboards.

Murray shifts awkwardly, hands in his pockets. "Jared, I, eh, I'm sorry man. Didn't hear a fucking thing..."

"'S ok," Jared offers a small smile. Really, he doesn't blame Murray; not his job or responsibility to make sure Jared doesn't accidentally get frozen to death.

"You need anything else?"

"Keep an eye out?" Jensen nods his head at the canteen. "Least until someone comes to collect us."

"Yeah. No infirmary?"

Jensen holds the cup of tea in front of Jared's face, his eyes squinted in concentration. "Are your thoughts all jumbled and non-linear?"

It takes Jared a moment to realize Jensen is talking to him. "Uh, not, no not anymore."

"Breathing and pulse seem fine." He tilts the cup a little, warm but not burning liquid flowing past Jared's lips. "Do you think you need to see a doctor?"

Jared swallows down the tea - peppermint - and shakes his head. "Just want bed. Sleep. Forever."

"Yeah, let's not make it forever just yet, hm?"

Murray mumbles something under his breath and disappears toward the service counter.

"Don't drink it too quickly." Jensen's face is about three inches from his as he holds the cup of tea, allowing Jared slow, small sips.

The tea warms his belly, almost as much as the warmth coming off Jensen. Still, the chill seems to have settled into his bones. They sit silently for a few minutes, Jared studying the freckles on Jensen's cheekbones, half-wishing he had a pen to connect them into intricate constellations, because if he can focus on Jensen's face, he doesn't have to think about nearly losing his life.

"I'm sorry," Jared says, remembering what he had planned to tell Jensen before his arctic adventure. "I-"

"Let's pack it in!"

They both startle at the guard's loud voice. Jensen helps him to his feet, keeping him steady with an arm wrapped around Jared's waist as they shuffle over to the canteen.

The guard looks them over with cold eyes, and Jared wonders if he had expected to be cleaning up at least one body tonight. "Move it, I don't have all night."

Jensen growls, but it's quiet enough that Jared doesn't think anyone else can hear. Murray trails behind them as they make their way back to the cell block, Jared leaning heavily on Jensen. His feet don't want to hold him, knees fragile like thin candles on the world's saddest birthday cake. He doesn't even have the energy to look into Rich and Misha's cell, he just wants to lie down under his blanket and be warm again.

The lights are already off, another indication that his almost-murder was most definitely planned out carefully. If Jensen hadn't found him maybe no one would have until tomorrow morning. He pushes back the nausea that makes the tea slosh in his stomach, sagging against the wall as Jensen watches the bars of their cell slide shut. Jensen stays there for a moment, forehead leaning against the bars, and Jared thinks he sees a slight tremor run up Jensen's spine. Then again, he's really very tired. As if on cue, he starts to slip down the wall, the soft sound of fabric scraping against brick drawing Jensen's attention.

Jensen's arms catch him, strong arms pulling him up and against Jensen. "Alright, let's get you in bed."

Jared lets himself be moved until he's sitting down on Jensen's bunk, looking up at Jensen.

"You eh... you should get out of those clothes. And we should make sure all your extremities still work." Jensen rubs a hand over his cheek, looking a little lost.

"Pervert," Jared huffs, trying for a smile but probably not quite succeeding.

Jensen rolls his eyes, then starts rifling through his clothes. He pulls out a pair of his own grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt and a black zip hoodie. When he turns back to Jared, Jared hasn't moved an inch. Instead, he watches Jensen's movements, the familiarity soothing the pitter patter of his heart, dulling the sharp edge of near-hysteria that he's trying not to touch his toe to.

"You need a hand?"

Jensen sounds oddly out of his depth, somehow, and Jared finds it more than a little intriguing. He diligently starts tying to push off his sneakers but his toes are still so cold he doesn't manage more than an awkward fumble.

Jensen puts the clothes next to him on the mattress and sinks to his knees at Jared's feet. His fingers make quick work of Jared's shoes, pulling them off along with the socks. He kneads Jared's feet, forcing the circulation back into them, and tears spring to Jared's eyes when a sharp tingle the wrong side of painful erupts on the cold skin of his feet, sinking in right down to the bone. 

"Shh, I'm sorry." Jensen winces, then puts each of Jared's feet under his arms, squeezing them softly to his sides. "I showered," Jensen says defensively, and Jared has the irrational urge to wriggle his toes to see if Jensen's armpits are ticklish.

"Do I wanna know why you know so much about how to cure insta-freeze?"

"Probably not, no." Jensen grabs a pair of thick socks and carefully rolls them onto Jared's feet. "Pants."

Jared leans back until his head is awkwardly pressed against the wall and tries to push his pants over his hips. After a moment's struggle, Jensen's hands cover his own and he pulls them off smoothly, taken his boxers along with them.

The cold air hits his skin, and he starts to shiver again. In any other context, he might quite enjoy being half-naked with Jensen kneeling between his legs, and while he welcomes the closeness after the last few days, that's about all he can muster. Jensen helps him slide on clean, dry boxers - Jensen's - and the sweatpants he picked out. The fabric is soft against his red skin, soothing like a warm bath.

"Almost there," Jensen says, his voice soft, another caress against his oversensitive skin. 

Jared's t-shirt is next, quickly replaced with a dry one, then covered with the hoodie. Jensen sits back on his heels, then suddenly surges forward and puts a hand on Jared's nose.

Jared blinks, convinced Jensen has finally lost his mind. "Um... what are you doing?"

"Checking for frostbite. Forgot your nose." Jensen pulls his hand back, then starts peeling the blanket off his bunk. "Lie down."

Jared is fairly certain his eyebrows have taken up residence somewhere in his hairline, but he does as he is told, stretching out on Jensen's mattress.

"Turn over."

"Huh?"

"On your side and face the wall."

If he was less tired maybe he would protest at being ordered around, but as it stands it is easier to comply. He grumbles under his breath, but rolls on his side. A few moments later, he hears the sound of clothes hitting the concrete floor, and then a warm weight settles behind him, pulling the covers over them both.

Jared exhales sharply, in no way prepared for any of this as Jensen's bare legs tangle with his own under the covers, and Jensen's arm curls around his chest, hand flat over his heart. He's engulfed in Jensen's warmth, and his brain cannot comprehend what is happening, or how on earth they both fit in this bunk.

"Need to monitor your heartbeat," Jensen says against his neck, fingertips on Jared's chest tightening for a brief moment as if he's offering an explanation.

"Oh-ok."

"Let me know if you start feeling worse, and we'll get a guard to take you to the infirmary."

"Uh-huh."

"And quit thinking so loud."

"'S what I do," Jared mumbles, relaxing against Jensen as the warmth spreads through him. He feels Jensen's lips curl into a smile against his neck, and he brings his hand up to cover Jensen's, entwining their fingers. Jensen squeezes him back tightly, shaky breath fanning over Jared's hair. Everything they have done up to this point, none of it comes close to this. It feels as if he's become a part of Jensen, and Jensen of him, chasing away shadows of loneliness and doubt, replacing them with comfort and a sense of belonging. He nearly died not an hour ago, and yet he doesn't think he's felt safer since coming to Angola than he does right now.

"I know what you did," Jared whispers in the quiet of their cell. Jensen tenses instantly, his breathing speeding up a little. "No," Jared hurries to explain, "not anything... not that. I mean what you did for me."

Jensen makes a noise halfway between questioning and confused.

"All of it. Marcus, the kitchen, Misha..."

He hears Jensen swallow, wishes he could turn around to see his face, but he's too comfortable to move and too worried that moving may make Jensen reconsider staying plastered to his back.

"I eh, I don't-"

"Thank you," Jared says softly as he pulls Jensen's hand tighter against his chest. "I'm not sure why, or how, but thank you."

Jensen hums, and then silence fills the cell. Nothing like the cutting quiet he's tiptoed around the last few days, this feels easy, like things settling back into place after a hurricane, maybe with a crack here and there, and maybe not quite in the same place they were before, but settled all the same.

Jared is almost giving into the sleepiness that is trying to pull him in when Jensen speaks up again.

"Jay, you realize this isn't over, right? Mark is not going to stop. If anything, he'll be more determined because now you're rapidly becoming a potential loose end."

Yeah, Jared had figured as much. But somehow, squeezed in this bunk, Mark seems a distant concept. Hell, even prison is far from his mind, pushed back by a splash of color Jensen effortlessly painted into his life. Effortlessly, and unexpectedly. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"I need you to stick close. Till I figure out what to do. Not to anyone, stick with me, please?" Jensen's fingers ghost over Jared's hair, over his ear, restless as if they need to touch but don't want to linger anywhere too long to be noticed. "You can't die. Y'hear me?"

He tries to answer, but the words get stuck somewhere in his throat, so he nods instead. After today's little adventure, he definitely has no pressing urge to go wandering off by himself and give Mark another opportunity to showcase his murder skills.

"I'm sorry," Jensen whispers, "I thought... thought if you hated me, he wouldn't..."

Jared draws in a shaky breath, clings a little harder to Jensen's hand on his chest. His lips won't form the words he wants to say, but he hopes Jensen catches them anyway.

*

During the night, he wakes up several times, disoriented more than panicked, but every time he wakes up it only takes a few seconds for his brush with death to trickle back into his brain. Every time it does, he becomes a little more aware of just how fucking lucky he had been. A few more minutes and that would have been it, they'd be burying him next to Alex at the edge of the prison, to be forgotten and never separated from the place. The realization comes with a shiver each time, followed by Jensen squeezing him tighter, sometimes a few words he doesn't quite catch or remember whispered in his ear. This is a whole new side to Jensen that, honestly, Jared hadn't thought existed. Another puzzle piece.

Morning comes too soon, and Jared is unsurprised to find Jensen awake before him. He hears it in the way Jensen breathes, having spent enough time listening to Jensen not sleep. Jensen is still pressed against him, and there's no mistaking the hardness against his lower back. His own dick gives an interested twitch at the contact. Somewhere during the night, Jensen's hand slipped down to Jared's stomach, his fingers splayed over the layers he put on Jared the night before. In any other world, they might have lazy morning sex, leaving everything unresolved between them to gather dust on a shelf a little while longer. Not in this world.

"Did you sleep at all?" Jared mumbles, his voice thick with sleep, and he doesn't want to move just yet, wants to cling to the illusion a little while longer, at least until a guard comes to collect them.

"Here and there," Jensen shrugs against him. "How do you feel?"

He takes a moment to consider the question, checking in with the rest of him. Still a little tired, more than a little shaken. "I'm alright."

"Good." Jensen's hand brushes a little lower, fingertips skimming the head of Jared's dick through his sweatpants. He chuckles softly, the air vibrating against Jared's neck. "Guess that extremity survived as well, hm?"

It's impossible to estimate time in their cell, which means it is impossible to estimate how long they have until a guard comes to wake them up. But after yesterday's events, Jared is feeling a little risky, he's earned it. Near-death experiences speeding up what he had anticipated would be a much slower process, with heated exchanges and frustration making them clash before anything got better. It's easier to ignore the details when he remembers what he still has, and what he damn near lost. He pushes his ass back against Jensen lightly, instantly rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

"What are you doing?" 

Jared's feet find some purchase on the mattress, allowing him to rub against Jensen.

"Since when are you slow to catch on..."

"You're recovering from hypothermia..." Jensen's fingers curl around his hip, not quite pushing him away, but not quite pulling him closer yet either.

"I think I'm recovering quite nicely." Jared plants one foot and rolls over to face Jensen.

This is an act that the width of the bunk simply cannot stand for. Just as Jared is nearly turned over, his eyes catching a flash of green darkened and fixed on him, everything is replaced with the widening of Jensen's eyes as he topples out of the bunk.

He lands on the floor with a loud thud, and a louder "Fuck!"

Jared stares at the space Jensen occupied a moment ago, before laughter bubbles up his throat. He can't help it, Jensen's incredulous face staring up at him from where he's sitting, in his boxers, on the concrete. His head tips back as he laughs more, not caring who he wakes up.

"You little shit," Jensen grunts, but the corners of his mouth tremble as if he's doing his best not to give into a smile. "Help me up, asshole."

Jared reaches a hand out, which Jensen takes, pulling himself a few inches off the floor, then pulling himself back up on the bunk. He twists around until he can look at Jared, a hand on his chest pushing Jared back onto his back. "Anyone ever tell you, you have horrible timing?"

Jared smiles sweetly, unzipping his suddenly-too-hot hoodie. "It's a matter of perspective."

"Not sure that "perspective" is something you want to subject Dugas to," Jensen mumbles, his eyes following the movements of Jared's hands as he shrugs off the hoodie.

"He should be so lucky." Jared strips off his t-shirt next, his movements slow and deliberate.

Jensen's eyes narrow, fingertips grazing over the now bare skin of Jared's chest. "Think you're the one with the exhibitionist kink."

Maybe, but prison isn't really the best location to indulge. Which means Jared is bluffing, well aware that there is too much light filtering into the cell block, and by extension, their cell. Too many cons who are early risers, and no, he's not actually interested in providing the morning's entertainment, but Jensen hasn't stopped him yet.

His socks follow the path of his hoodie and t-shirt, and he'll even stretch to push down his sweatpants so that he's matching Jensen's level of undress. He stretches back out, hands hovering over the waistband of his boxers, waiting for Jensen to do... something. Stop him. Or not.

Jensen raises an eyebrow, eyes flitting from Jared's face to his hands. Figures Jensen would call his bluff. He decides to change tactics, pulls Jensen down to him with a hand on his neck. He brushes their lips together swallowing Jensen's next exhale and this, this is like the kiss of freaking life. Jensen's tongue darts out, licking over his lips, tangling with his own as the kiss deepens. 

His fingers curl in the short hair at the back of Jensen's head, other hand wrapping around his waist, pulling Jensen to him tightly. Jared's legs part, letting Jensen settle between them, heavy weight pressing him into the mattress in all the right places, pushing him back together again. 

"Thought you hated me," Jensen mumbles against Jared's lips. His fingers trail down Jared's side, curling around the small of his back, tips of his fingers dipping into the waistband of Jared's boxers.

Jared plants his feet on the mattress, and he rocks up against Jensen, hand on Jensen's ass pushing him down as he sinks his teeth into Jensen's lower lip. "Don't hate you."

"I'd understand..." Jensen pulls back for a moment, tilting his head further back when Jared tries to maintain contact. He looks down at Jared, seriousness clouding his eyes, a tiny speck of maybe apprehension, maybe fear, lurking in the green. 

Jared rubs a thumb over Jensen's jaw, stubble scratching under his skin, until he finds the soft skin below Jensen's ear. When he rubs his thumb there, Jensen's eyes shutter, breath huffed out harshly. "Hey," Jared whispers, waiting until Jensen's eyes open again, settling on him, desire mixing with the fear into something intoxicating. "I don't hate you."

He knows Jensen heard the words he didn't say when he leans his forehead against Jared's, breathing harshly. "I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

"I know." Jared presses his lips to the corner of Jensen's mouth lightly, smiling when Jensen immediately turns into it. He reaches down to grab the corner of the blanket and he pulls it over both of them, creating a tent that is at least a little hidden from any early risers. He strokes over Jensen's ribs, down to his boxers and pushes them down over his hips. Jensen's hard dick settles against his stomach, painting it with precome, pulling a delicious noise from low in Jensen's throat.

"Fuck, wanna fuck you, Jay," Jensen whispers, thrusting his hips lightly as his nails dig into Jared's shoulder.

The words tingle down his spine to his dick, and he rushes to push his own boxers down, too. "Want you to." 

Jensen's dick slides against his, and Jared can't stop the moan that leaves his lips, Jensen's forehead falling to Jared's shoulder. "We don't have time for this," Jensen says, voice deeper than usual, grinding into Jared's skin, and Jared has stopped caring. Let guards come, cons see, he wants Jensen inside him, now. 

He may have said something to that effect out loud, because Jensen's breathing speeds up along with his thrusts against Jared. "Can't. Not like this. Wanna take my time, make it real good for you."

"Please," Jared gasps, his knees falling wider. The entire length of Jensen's body slides against him, slick sheen of sweat easing the way.

"Mm, you wanna feel me inside you? Thought about what it would feel like?" 

"Yeah," Jared breathes, meeting Jensen's movements, friction on his dick enough to drive him out of his skin.

"Gonna open you up first, slowly, use my fingers to fuck you open," Jensen's lips press against the side of Jared's neck. "Maybe use my tongue, too, wanna taste you, feel you squeeze around it."

"Fuck, Jensen." Jared's legs are trembling his head thrown back, the images Jensen is painting for him so vivid he can almost feel it.

"Make you beg for it. Make you so crazy that all you want is my cock filling you up."

Jensen reaches a hand between them, curling around both of them, his hand a tight vice, Jensen's dick hot against his own.

"Then I'll fuck you, slowly, get you used to the feeling," Jensen's hand strokes up, fingers squeezing before pulling back down. "But I don't think you want it slow, do you?"

"No," Jared says, trying to keep his voice down, trying to swallow back the noises slithering up his throat.

"No? How do you want it then?"

Jared tries to string words together, a frustrated groan leaving him when Jensen stops moving. Dark green eyes fix his own, the skin of Jensen's cheeks flushed, his lips kiss-swollen, and if Jared had a camera he would take a picture of Jensen just like this.

"I asked you a question." The words slip over Jared's skin like melting butter, his hips trying to seek out more of that delicious friction.

"Want you to fuck me hard, fill me up, make the fucking frame bounce off the wall."

Jensen's hips stutter, and his teeth sink into the muscle of Jared's shoulder as he spills between them, hot and wet over his hand, over Jared's belly. The feeling of Jensen's release pushes Jared off the edge, every muscle in his body pulling tight, his fingers digging into Jensen's ass as he comes like he's never going to stop.

Jensen sags on top of him, harsh breaths panting out against Jensen's sweaty skin sending goosebumps everywhere. Jared slides his hands up Jensen's spine, one hand in his hair to pull Jensen up, so he can look at him. Soft green eyes find his own, raw emotion seeping into his skin, and he swallows thickly. Jensen's lips are parted, and he offers a small smile that Jared matches, before he looks down between them.

"I don't think our laundry schedule is going to be sufficient if we keep this up," Jensen snorts, his voice still a little breathless.

Jared is about to offer a solution when a loud bang interrupts him. The unmistakable sound of a night stick hitting their bars.

"Rise and shine!"

The bars start sliding open a second later, and Jensen laughs when Jared's eyes widen, panic evident on his face as he weighs his options. Stay stuck - quite literally - to Jensen under the blanket or roll out of the bunk buck naked and... yeah. No.

"I'm sure he's seen worse." Jensen winks, but he sits up slowly. He plucks a discarded shirt off the floor and wipes himself clean before doing the same with Jared, and at the very least they are headed straight for the shower. They slip on enough clothes not to draw unwanted attention and make their way out of the cell.

Misha and Rich trail behind them, and Jared can feel their eyes on his back, but he doesn't care. Doesn't even care what they maybe - probably, definitely - saw. He feels lighter than he has in days, which is saying a lot given the events of last night. He showers next to Jensen, catches Jensen's eye every time he looks over, smiling every time without failure. Who knew that sex could push the threat of imminent danger to his life to the back of his mind?

Rich and Misha don't know what happened in the kitchen last night, which helps, too. Even if they are surprised at Jared and Jensen being back on speaking terms, or perhaps a little more than speaking, they don't show it. But of course, there is one person who drops Jared back into the cold hole of reality with nothing more than his presence.

Jared and Jensen serve breakfast, no doubt part of Jensen's promise not to let Jared out of his sight for a moment. The feel of Jensen wrapped around him lingers, like a buffer between Jared and the rest of the world. He stands a little straighter, and, yes, had he been on his own in front of Mark Pellegrino, he probably would have shattered. Cracked, at the very least. Hell, if he's completely honest, if Jensen wasn't here he'd have stayed in the back of the kitchen for the foreseeable future.

Pellegrino steps in front of Jared, eyes narrowed, lazy smirk playing around his lips. "One of these things just doesn't belong here," he sing-songs, tilting his head as he looks Jared up and down.

Jared clenches his jaw, drawing comfort from Jensen's warmth right next to him. He slops a spoonful of eggs on Pellegrino's plate, meeting his eyes even as it makes a drop of sweat roll down his spine.

"Gotta say, Jared, a weekend break to the arctic agrees with you. You look... frosty."

"You enjoying yourself, Mark?" Jensen sounds upbeat, but Jared doesn't miss the gravel in his voice.

Pellegrino's eyes shift to Jensen, nothing but pure, unfiltered hatred spilling from him, the slip in his usual mask giving away at least some frustration. "I keep myself entertained, Jen, you know that."

"Good. Wouldn't want your last days on earth to be dull."

"Back to the idle threats." Pellegrino steps in front of Jensen, but he doesn't even bother to hold out his plate. "You've gone soft, Jenny. You know pretty cowboys with nice Texas drawls are your Achilles heel. Only a matter of time before I shoot an arrow through it."

"You're shooting blanks, Marky," Jensen snorts, nudging Jared's shoulder. "Clearly lost your touch, assuming you ever had it."

"I like to practice," Pellegrino's voice is low, sharp edge of danger cutting each word. "Practice makes perfect. And I think, ultimately, I prefer a bit more of a hands-on approach."

Jared puts his hands down on the counter, so Pellegrino won't notice they're trembling. He doesn't want this asshole to get to him, but every word is a promise that Jared knows is going to keep him up at night.

Jensen hums, points his bacon fork at Pellegrino. "You're playing little league," he whispers, then runs his tongue over the top of his teeth, and Jared doesn't know who looks more lethal in that instant. "I'm a fucking Olympian."

Pellegrino stares at him for a moment longer before moving down the line. Jared lets go of a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He barely manages to keep a hold of the spoon in his hand as he continues serving inmates.

"You're fine," Jensen whispers, and Jared smiles thinly.

They take their plates to the back of the kitchen, Jensen stalling to get some coffee as Jared sits down with Rich and Misha.

"Morning Nemo," Rich nods, but he's looking at the canteen instead of Jared. "Murray gave us the local news report."

Jared winces, his stomach tightening, and if he hadn't been hungry before he really isn't now.

"Fuck, Jared," Rich exhales, glancing between him and Misha. "These two are dancing the tango of death, and you're going to get crushed between them."

Jared shrugs, more exhaustion than indifference. "Maybe. But ultimately, I guess I'm in the safest place I can be."

"The fucking kitchen?" Rich asks incredulously.

"No," Jared says, as he watches Jensen walk towards them. "With Jensen."

*

Safest place or not, the feeling of wandering through a tiger enclosure without anything to protect himself doesn't leave him. Even with Jensen by his side, Jared doesn't turn his back unless it's toward a wall. His eyes track everyone's whereabouts, making sure he knows where all of them are at any given moment in time, and it warms him a little that it's not just Jensen who stays close to him. He catches Rich scanning their surroundings, charting territory like he had when Robson was around, except this time, Jared is at the center of it all. The well-oiled machine of the kitchen is back, cogs moving around him effortlessly, and although it affords a sense of safety, he will not let himself be lured into that illusion again. Misha helps him make sandwiches for lunch, and a tense quiet settles over the kitchen.

His increased focus means he knows Pellegrino has abandoned his mop and bucket and is sauntering up to the counter before he reaches it. Jared's in the back of the kitchen with Misha, Jensen at the counter; a human barrier keeping anyone who doesn't belong there out of the kitchen. The first line of defense, though not quite the only one. Maybe, if it had been just another random inmate, maybe he wouldn't have been as freaked out. But having a hitman with a singular focus on him, a hotheaded hitman looking for vengeance, in a confined space with him... Jared thinks he can be forgiven for the way his palms haven't stopped being clammy since he left his cell and the warmth of Jensen's arms this morning.

"You gotta stop, man," Jensen says, voice carrying to the back of the kitchen. "You're just embarrassing yourself at this point. All this menace, it's hella transparent."

"I like to play with my food."

Jared grinds down on the shiver that almost gets away from him. Even if Mark can't see him back here, he still doesn't want to give him the hypothetical satisfaction of knowing Jared is feeling thoroughly played with.

"You're covering up your own incompetence," Jensen snorts, "face it, Marky. You ain't got the balls nor the skills. But you already knew that, hm?"

"You know, prison really sucks the creativity out of murder." The sound of Pellegrino's footsteps travels along the counter, Jensen's feet following him. "It doesn't allow for much in the way of making a point, adding some theatricality. Death should be like poetry, the method a play of words highlighting what you want to show about the life to be ended."

"And what does that make you, the tortured writer with more money than talent?"

"You underestimate me. Always have."

"You're boring me to tears, man. Go find someone who wants to listen to your crap."

"Oh, I'll see those pretty tears on your face again, Jen, I promise."

Jared's hands have stopped moving over the counter, half-made sandwiches forgotten. Misha picks up where he left off, talking softly to him, about his favorite sandwich, about the perfect combination of cheese toasties and tomato soup on a rainy day. The rhythm of his voice is soothing, even if Jared doesn't catch all the words, he tries to hold onto them to keep his breathing in check. It's not even really the fear of dying, not entirely. Just the thought that Mark could get to him, at any moment, if he decided to. The knowledge that Mark already caught him off guard once, that Jared had been stupid enough to consider himself out of harm's way in a familiar place. He stays in the back of the kitchen during lunch, barely manages to eat three bites of his egg sandwich before his stomach protests, and he decides to stick with water instead.

He spends the afternoon halfheartedly chopping vegetables, and trying not to lose himself to thoughts of death and mutilation. Would they bury him next to Alex? No one would come to claim his body. Would Jensen go to his funeral? What if Mark killed Jensen too? He tries and fails, wonders how long this is sustainable. It's not been a day, and he's exhausted, drained, as if the energy has been wrung out of him like soap out of a dish rag. At some point, Jensen abandons his spot by the service counter, leans on the counter next to him, his eyes on the knife in Jared's hands.

"How you holding up?"

The corners of his mouth twitch, want to twist into a sneer, but even that is too much effort. "I feel like... fuck, like some... pathetic little-"

"Hey," Jensen cuts him off, hand heavy between Jared's shoulder blades, rubbing soothing circles. "None of that. You're neither pathetic nor little. This is not your average situation, ok? 'S not even really a Robson situation."

Jared leans into the comforting weight of Jared's hand, swallows down the adrenaline that he swears he can taste in his mouth. "I feel helpless."

"I know."

"It's not something I've felt before." Not like this, not like he was helpless to preserve his own life.He's been out of control to various degrees since the day he got arrested, but it just doesn't compare.

"I know."

"I don't think I like it."

Jensen's hand slides around his waist, comes to rest on his stomach, his forehead on Jared's shoulder, warm breath heating his skin through the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "I know."

They stay like that for a few moments longer, Jared drawing strength from Jensen's presence, Jensen just there; he doesn't need to do anything more. Finally, he pulls back slightly, leaving one hand on Jared's shoulder, as if he can't _not_ touch at least some part of Jared.

"I got a late therapy session tonight," Jensen says, voice low. "It's my monthly mandatory, really no way of getting out of it, especially now. Hell, they may get it in their heads to send me back to E-Wing if I refuse to go."

Jared tenses at the thought of Jensen leaving their cell, their kitchen, their block, wing...

"So I'll go, but I eh... made it so that they won't come get me until we're already locked in our cells, ok? So you'll be fine."

"Thought you lost your perks?"

"Yeah, this is another inmate. Appointment before me. He's going to fake a little crisis and drag his appointment out a bit."

"That's nice of him."

Jensen gives a one-shouldered shrug. "He owes me one."

Jared can't help but raise an eyebrow at that, and Jensen rolls his eyes.

"Nothing like that. I helped him send some money to his kids, make sure they are taken care of while he's in here. Wife, too."

Jared's lips try to work out a response, before he just shakes his head with a small smile. He could spend a decade in Jensen's space and still be surprised by this man. "You... have more sides to you than a D&D die."

It's Jensen's turn to frown. "Ok, first, random, and I'm not sure I understood a word of that." He leans in to brush his lips over Jared's jaw lightly, a whisper of a moment. "Second, need to make sure you don't get bored of me. We got a lotta time ahead of us."

Jared swallows, the promise there, even if Jensen sounds flippant, joking, it fills him with warm blankets and hot chocolate and fuzzy socks instead of dread. Yeah. Yeah, they do.

When dinner rolls around, he feels relieved. Almost time to go back to his cell, and if that means he's hiding, he will hide happily and recharge his batteries for tomorrow. Jensen may even want to help take his mind off this miserable day.

The four of them eat dinner at the table in the back. Comforting and familiar, the tension bleeding out of the kitchen a little as Rich drags Jensen into conversation about concerts they've been to. It's easy, more so than perhaps it should be, Jensen's hand on his knee under the table as if he knows Jared relaxes at being given an anchor, Misha's knowing smile across the table. He could do another however many years of this, if it was always like this.

"I'd go see R.E.M.," Rich says, voice heavy, as if he's made a life-or-death decision instead of picking the first gig he'd go to if he got out. "Never seen them, I think it'd be a fitting welcome back to the world."

"Blue Oyster Cult," Jensen says around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.

"Are they even alive anymore?" Rich looks around the table, Jared and Misha's faces blank. "Come on, children. Respect your elders, and their music."

"There is so much wrong with that sentence," Jared snorts, pushing his own mashed potatoes around on his plate.

"You both listen to music that was made before either of you were born," Misha adds, as he gives Rich an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

"Gotta appreciate the classics," Jensen smiles, winking at Jared.

"Are you referring to yourself or the music?" Jared asks him sweetly, trying to duck out of the way of Jensen slapping him on the back of his head.

"No violence at the dinner table," Misha scolds, pointing his fork at both of them in warning.

Conversation ebbs and flows, Jared choosing to forget for a moment that Jensen is making get out of jail plans he will never get to realize, in favor of daydreaming along with them. After dinner, they clean up quickly before a guard comes to collect them.

"Ackles, you wait here a moment, I'll have someone sent down to take you to your appointment." The guard gestures for the rest of them to follow him to the cell block. 

Jensen's hand brushes against Jared's when he walks past Jensen, his face relaxed, if a little tired. Jared follows Misha and Rich, tries to suppress a yawn, and he's not sure he'll manage to stay awake until Jensen is back. The bars slide shut behind him, and the sleepiness catches up with him quickly. It's odd, being locked in this cell by himself. Somehow, it makes the space seem smaller than when he's sharing it with Jensen. He stretches out on Jensen's bunk, wraps himself in the sheets that smell of them. Just a little nap, so he'll be awake when Jensen gets back.

He drifts off almost instantly, doesn't even wake up when the lights go off, and the noise gradually dies down around him. 

"Padalecki."

The sound of someone hissing his name filters into his dreamless sleep, and he blinks his eyes open to darkness. Shit! He must have been asleep for a while if the lights are off. He looks around for Jensen, his eyes landing on a guard standing by the slightly opened bars to the cell.

"What's going on? Where's Jensen?" He sits up slowly, dread coiling under his skin, the unsettling feeling that something is very wrong taking him over.

"I'll take you to him."

He narrows his eyes, tries to make out the face of the guard, and he knows he's seen him countless times before, but he can't think of his name. "Where is he? He should have been back hours ago..."

"So get up, and I'll take you to him."

It's a trap, he knows it's a trap, knows something fishy is going on, and he should call for help. "What did you do to him?" He whispers, the words sending a shiver down his arms to his fingers.

The guard shifts his weight, his tactic changing with the movement. "Nothing yet. But I swear to God, if you don't keep your mouth shut and come with me now, you'll never see him alive again."

His blood runs cold, heartbeat skipping as the blood rushes from his head to his toes. Think. What would Jensen do? Jensen would go with the guard. What would he tell Jared to do? Call for help. He bites through his lip weighing his options, tries to pick the right one. He hears Rich's voice in his head, mocking him when he'd asked Rich why Misha hadn't told anyone about what happened to him. _He'd be in the ground by now._ Pellegrino has most of the guards in his pocket, and Jared has no idea who he could trust; there _is_ no one to call for help.

He swallows past the lump in his throat and stands up slowly. He puts his shoes back on, swaying slightly with a combined head- and adrenaline rush. No idea what he's walking into, but whatever it is, it can't be good.

The guard directs him back to the kitchen, hand on his arm a reminder not to try anything stupid. As they cross the threshold into the canteen, Jared realizes he should have tried to get Rich and Misha's attention, even if they would have been as helpless as he is, at least someone would know. Then again, how could he have gotten their attention without waking up the entire cell block?

The canteen is shrouded in darkness, only the light from the floods in the yard spilling across the tables and chairs, giving the whole space an eerie, after-school type of feeling. The guard stops in front of the service counter, looking around, and Jared knows what - who - he's waiting for.

"You don't have to do this," he says, voice creaking around the words. "We won't tell anyone. Just let us go."

"Shut up," the guard grumbles.

Footsteps behind them, and Jared doesn't have to look to know who is coming out of the kitchen. A glance over his shoulder confirms it's Pellegrino, long shadow coming towards him with certain strides, glint of shiny metal in his hand drawing Jared's attention. The guard leaves without another word.

He could fight, maybe he'd even get a few decent punches in, but what the fuck is he supposed to do against a knife pointed at him? Two breaths, and Pellegrino is behind him, the knife curled against his throat like an embrace. "Scream," Pellegrino hisses in his ear, "and it's not your own ass you need to worry about."

"I am not afraid of you." As he says the words, he realizes they're true. Mostly. He's sick and tired of Mark, Robson, guards, fucking everyone playing in his sandbox, messing up all his carefully built sandcastles. 

"That's very clever of you," Mark nods, tracing the sharp side of the knife over his cheek. "But I've been watching you, and you know what I noticed?"

Jared rolls his eyes in lieu of answering, but Mark is not deterred.

"You got the same weak spot as Jen. So I flipped the script on you." He grabs Jared's shoulder and pushes him ahead, towards the stockroom. 

The door swings open to reveal Jensen, on his ass on the floor, hands tied behind his back to the shelves bolted to the floor. His legs are sprawled in front of him, a footprint on the thigh of his soft grey sweatpants. When the door opens, Jensen's head tilts up, a trickle of blood running down his left cheek from somewhere in his hair, eyes narrowing when he sees Jared and Mark.

"Mark, I swear to God-"

"Yeah, yeah, if I hurt one hair on his pretty little head you'll hang me from the watch tower by my balls, got it, Jen." Mark shoves Jared to the opposite shelves, pointing the knife at him in warning. "Don't get any ideas. Handcuffs."

Jared glances at Jensen, eyes shifting over the handcuffs on the shelf next to him. Two steps and Mark is at Jensen's side, crouching down, the tip of the knife pressed under Jensen's eye, but his full attention remains on Jared. 

"I don't think this is how you want to find out just how much I don't give a rat's ass about cutting some bits out of him."

"Ok," Jared raises his hands as if he's trying to calm down a mad man. As if? He shakes his head and picks up the cuffs, his movements slow, thoughts racing. While Mark is focused on Jensen, Jared subtly pulls his lighter out of his pocket and tucks it in the back of his sweatpants. The lighter is an old zippo with a thin keyring attached to one end and it's the best chance he has right now. He'll figure out the specifics later.

He clicks the handcuffs into place, securing his hands behind him to the vertical part of the shelf frame. 

"Show me," Pellegrino orders, stepping closer so he can run his fingers over the cuffs. "Tug on them."

Jared does as he's told, rattling the whole frame.

Pellegrino smiles up at him. "Excellent, now it's a party!"

Jensen is watching Pellegrino like a hawk, following his every move, looking around the stockroom occasionally as if he's trying to put together a plan to get out of this situation. He's wasting his time. Jared knows every can, every bag, every freaking splinter in this room. Nothing useful.

"So," Pellegrino pulls out the little step they use to reach the higher shelves, and sits down on it. He crosses his arms over his chest and scratches his cheek with the tip of the knife. "We should catch up."

"The guards will come looking for us," Jared says, sounding more confident than he feels, but there must be someone on duty who would have an issue with both of them being missing from their cell, right? 

"Jared, Jared, Jared," Pellegrino shakes his head. "No they won't. No one is looking for any of us. You wanna tell Jared why that is, Jenny?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Pellegrino hums in agreement. "It used to be Jensen who made people disappear."

"He did more than that," Jared mumbles.

"And now he doesn't. Those strings were never his to pull."

"The fuck they were," Jensen huffs, shifting where he's sitting, muscles in his arms straining against the cuffs. His lips twist into an evil grin, his eyes flat, empty, like he's turned off whatever makes them look alive. "If your daddy only knew what you were up to."

Pellegrino is on his feet and next to Jensen so fast it doesn't even register with Jared until Pellegrino grabs a handful of hair, pulling Jensen's head back, the knife ghosting over Jensen's throat. Pellegrino's face is pinched, a mask of barely controlled rage, his hand shaking as if it takes physical restraint to stop him from cutting Jensen's throat right there. 

Jensen licks his lips lazily, looking at Mark as if he's just found the toy he'd been hoping for all year in his Christmas stocking. "See, Jared, nothing Mark _has_ , nothing he has _done_ is really his. All of it is just because of his daddy." He smiles sweetly at Mark, and he may be addressing Jared, but his words are only for Pellegrino. " _Mr_ Pellegrino is the head of an old crime family. Came on the boat from Italy old." Jensen tilts his head, the glint of the light bulb dancing in the green of his eyes. "That's the only reason Mark has any swing."

Mark nods, purses his lips, then raises his fist and smacks it across Jensen's face. Jensen grunts, spits out some blood, but he doesn't stop talking, voice silky smooth, words teasing, winding Pellegrino up like a Duracell bunny, each word precise. "They're not quite what they were in the eighties, nineties, but the name Pellegrino still makes half of New Orleans quiver in their boots."

Jared's eyes widen. Shit, he'd had an inkling that Pellegrino had some... powers of persuasion, but nothing like this.

"You're one to talk, you ungrateful rat," Pellegrino hisses, taking a step back from Jensen so he can look at him better. "You were _nothing_ when he found you and your boyfriend. Filthy, ungrateful kids, poisoning him against me."

Wait what? Jared's gaze snaps to Jensen who meets his eyes briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "You did that yourself, with your pathetic jealousy. We were fucking thirteen. How pathetic do you have to be to be? 24 years old and threatened by a bunch of kids?"

"I didn't sign up for any of this!" Pellegrino shouts, fist slamming against the wall. "You took fucking everything from me, Jensen. I was his only son, the future of the family, I was the apple of his Goddamn eye and you-"

"We did nothing," Jensen says, voice even, unfazed by the truths that fall from his lips effortlessly. As if he has been gearing up for this moment, the inevitability of it, since Pellegrino came to their cell block. Maybe even longer than that. "Fuck, man, we looked up to you. Wanted to be just like you, but you couldn't see for the jealousy. Not my fault the old man thought you were too soft, thought me and Chris were better suited to working for him."

"Oh, you think you're tougher than me, huh?" Pellegrino inches closer, his fingers tightening on the knife, emotion splashed on marble indifference, sinking into the arrogance, undoing it slowly.

Jared's mind is reeling from the information spilling out over the sticky stockroom floor. No time to examine it further now, if they have any hope of getting out of here, that hope resides with his lighter. He carefully takes it out of his pants, thumb pushing against the thin metal ring, trying to straighten it out.

"You may know your way out there," Jensen nods his head at the door, but it's clear that he means the outside world rather than the prison. "But in here, the rules are different. The only reason you're still breathing is because every guard in here knows who your daddy is, and they would be out of their minds not to bend to your every whim."

"Kinda like how it was for you before I got here?" Pellegrino smirks.

Jensen shrugs, cuffs clinking behind him. "Not gonna lie, working for the boss, being seen as his kid had its perks. But this shithole, and every other shithole between here and West Texas has been my home for the last twenty odd years. Sure, it helped, but I got here because of me. I am still here because of me."

"You traded on my father's name. You got by here because of him and because of your precious boyfriend. Fuck." He turns to Jared, who does his best to keep his face blank, not let the concentration show on his face. "You think he's a nice piece of ass now? This one looked like a fucking angel when he was a kid. He would have made any straight man question himself."

"Such a flatterer," Jensen spits, his hands pulling on the cuffs.

"Not the straight man you wanted though, huh Jen?"

"Shut your mouth." Something dark flashes behind Jensen's eyes, something that makes Jared's mouth go dry, has his fingers push more insistently against the thin metal ring. Something that sucks the air out of the room, and flips the mood, the balance, like a switch. A flicker of something, a structural failure in Jensen's defenses, and if Jared saw it, Mark saw it, too. Mark probably knew it was there in the first place.

"Poor Jenny. So damn pretty. So painfully in love with his might as well be brother."

Jensen swallows, his jaw tight, but some of the steeliness is beginning to melt off his face, and it makes Jared's blood feel icy in his veins.

"They shared a room, Jared." Mark pauses, wiggles his eyebrows. Everything about his shift in behavior shows he knows he has found the chink in Jensen's armor, shows his determination to pick at it with a blunt knife until it bleeds. "Bunk beds. But even when they were too old for it to be passed off as comforting, Jensen would crawl into Chris's bed at night, wrap around him, squeeze-"

"Shut your fucking mouth," Jensen repeats, heartbeat thick in his eyes, shadowed memories playing hide and seek, and Jared aches with the need to reach out and cover his ears, make all of these ugly words tainting what have to be some of Jensen's most cherished memories disintegrate.

Pellegrino doesn't stop, satisfaction curling his lips as he keeps spitting out cruel words, each one measured, calculated for maximum impact. "Jen was Chris's shadow, so damn _needy_. Nothing he wouldn't do for Chris, he was desperate for it. And he would peep through the crack of the bathroom door when Chris was in the shower, all flushed cheeks, hand down his-"

"I'm going to kill you," Jensen whispers, his feet scrambling for purchase on the floor so he can stand up, wrists still pulled behind him. 

"And finally, gosh, I don't know what you did, but _finally_ Chris gave in." Mark steps right in front of Jensen, studying his face. "Guess he took pity on you, and hey..." he rubs a thumb over Jensen's lower lip, pulling back when Jensen snarls. "I guess to a teenager, any warm mouth will do the trick." Mark pats him on the cheek, steps out of reach of Jensen's long legs before Jensen can form the thought to kick him.

Jared has the ring straightened out enough to start poking around in the lock. He's got this, just needs to focus. Focus on his fingers, not on Jensen, breathing across the room as if he's been stabbed. He desperately wants to take Pellegrino's attention off Jensen, even if only for a moment, let him catch his breath and try to put his defenses back in order.

"The show's getting boring," Jared sighs, raising his eyebrows at Mark as if their current situation is nothing more than an endlessly dull inconvenience to him. He picked up a few skills from Jensen, can feign indifference and disinterest with some conviction.

"I waited a long time for this. You had better believe I'm going to take my time." Mark saunters over to Jared, stopping in front of him and it gives Jared some satisfaction that Mark has to tilt his head up slightly to look at Jared. "Now this one," he taps the knife on Jared's chest. "This one I did not see coming, but so far, he's only added to the fun."

"Fuck you," Jared says, looking at Mark with all the disgust he can muster. "You walk around like you own the fucking place, Mr. Untouchable, but really you're just upset your dad didn't love you enough? That's sad, man."

"Shut," Marks slams his hand down on the shelf next to Jared's head, then leans in close to hiss the next words "your mouth, about my dad."

"Whatever."

Mark presses the tip of knife into Jared's chin, forcing Jared to tilt his head back. "You're not in charge here. He," he nudges his head toward Jensen "is not in charge."

"But you are?"

Mark smirks, leans in conspiratorially, so Jared can feel every word brush against his ear. "I'm the one with the knife."

"And that is the only reason you are in charge," Jared snorts, head tilted in mockery.

The tip of the knife settles under his ear, cold metal against his overheated skin. Mark raises an eyebrow, but Jared keeps his face blank, refuses to give him the satisfaction of even a glimmer of a reaction. The blade breaks skin, a light, slicing motion straight down, avoiding his artery, a harsh sting then warm wetness. His eyes find Jensen's over Mark's shoulder, a caged, haunted look on Jensen's face, his lips slightly parted, moving but the words don't come. Jared offers him a small smile, tries to tell him he's fine, just a bit of blood, when Mark catches their shared look. He growls, switches the knife to his left hand in a quick move before his fist pulls back, hard punch landing in the middle of Jared's stomach, pain exploding around the impact, and he doubles over. His fingers almost open around the thin metal, but he manages to squeeze and hold on, huffs out a few harsh breaths as he tries to regain his bearing.

"Get the fuck away from him, Mark."

"Why? I thought this time you might enjoy being present when I kill another one of your boyfriends."

Jensen sags against the shelf, a puppet cut off his strings, his eyes slipping shut as if someone flicked his off-switch. 

Jared's heart pounds in his head, drowning out the thoughts, his hands working the metal into the lock of his handcuffs, trying to picture the inner mechanism, pushing against the words filtering into his brain, keeping them out because he can't process what they mean _and_ get his cuffs undone.

"Ultimately, it really wasn't that difficult to make dad doubt you two," Mark shrugs, uses the tip of the knife to pick at some dirt under his nails, but he's shaken, a little. Whatever leash he's had on his emotions since he got to their block is fraying. "A few rumors, some faked phone calls, hell, I had him convinced you guys were in the FBI's pocket in no time."

"Why?" Jensen asks, his eyes still closed, the word fragile like spun glass, shattering to the floor.

"You were in my way, and I needed you gone. Fuck, he was real hurt too, you know? Betrayed by two boys he took in like his own. But," Pellegrino shakes the knife like a teacher may indicate with a ruler. "When I presented him with the perfect solution, he didn't even hesitate."

Jensen's eyes open slowly, raw, naked, _wrong_ , and Jared wants him to close them again so Pellegrino can't see the pain he's inflicting. 

"Chris never saw it coming," Mark says, voice light, leaning in close, one hand braced on the shelf next to Jensen's head. "Still trusted me, why wouldn't he? I wish you could have seen his face when I pointed my gun at him, told him to get on his knees."

Jared sees Jensen's throat working, sees him shrink slightly, as if he's trying to curl up on himself, protect himself from Mark's words.

"His last thought was for you, Jen," Mark strokes the knife down over Jensen's cheek, scratching stubble, then dragging the tip over his lips. "He begged me, please don't hurt Jen. He _cried_ , Jenny, and he died alone. With you halfway across the city probably fucking some nameless, faceless twink to try to forget about him, hm?"

"Stop," Jensen says, voice broken glass and burning skin. 

"Let's see if this one will cry as well," Pellegrino smiles, nodding his head toward Jared. He turns slowly, eyes traveling up Jared's body slowly, settling on his face. He glances back at Jensen, the movement casual. "Maybe I'll frame you for this one, too."

"Mark," Jensen's voice cracks around the name, "please, please don't." 

"Shh," Mark puts a finger on his lips, eyes pinning Jared to the shelf digging into his back.

"You were right," Jensen says, voice a little frantic, "your dad didn't think you had it in you. Hell, first time he said it to me I was fifteen, after I came back watching my first hit. He told me you cried, first time you watched someone die. Said he wished you were more like me."

The vein next to Mark's eyes twitches and he spins back, three steps cutting across the floor and he's in front of Jensen, glint of metal flashing in the air, a whooshing sound and Jensen's cry ripping through Jared's eardrums. Jensen sinks to the floor, legs curled under him awkwardly, the knife, painted red clattering on the floor. Mark's voice fills the room, fists raining down on Jensen as if he can't stop.

Jared squeezes his eyes shut, every neuron focused on the movements of his fingers, on the clicking mechanism inside the lock, pushing the soft whimpers, the loud blows echoing off the walls away. How fucking lucky that a bored teenager with too much time on his hands had been intrigued by the idea of opening doors he shouldn't. One of his early dedications to perfecting a skill that had never been relevant or useful. The seconds stretch into eternity, slower than slow motion as he feels something give, and the cuff opens. He opens his eyes, his heart held by the drops of blood on the concrete, a larger, dark stain spreading from under Jensen, Mark nearly on top of him now, the back of his shirt dark with sweat, muscles bunching under the thin material. 

He pushes the cuffs off his hands, about to lunge at Mark, when he spots the knife, forgotten to the side, an afterthought rather than a starring role in the movements playing out in front of him. He picks it up, fingers sure, heart slowing down in his chest. He grabs a handful of Mark's hair and pulls, doesn't give Mark a second to change his tactics, turn on Jared. The knife presses into Mark's throat, blue eyes blown wide, scrambling for purchase until they find Jared's.

"Do not move," Jared says, voice low. 

Mark sits back on his heels, eyes flickering between the Jared's hand and his face, and Jared feels his Adam's apple bob against the knife when he swallows thickly. "Look, Jared-"

He presses the knife down a little harder, tiny drops of blood bubbling to the surface. "Don't speak, either." He keeps his eyes on Mark, one hand on his shoulder as he motions for Mark to get up. "Easy," he says, waiting for Mark to straighten up. "Key?"

"What?"

"Get the key, and undo his cuffs. Slowly."

Mark hesitates, seems to consider whether he can overpower Jared, get the knife back. 

"I _will_ cut your throat." A promise, not a threat, and he's never felt more certain of anything in his life. 

Mark digs the key out of his pocket, leans down slowly to undo one cuff, Jared following his motion, one hand on his shoulder, the other keeping the knife in place. He sees it coming, because in the last few months, he's become an excellent observer. He knows what to look for, knows the signs of that second and a half before a move, before a word, before a situation changes irreparably. That little bit of space, like a sizzling potential, slowed down for him to see. Mark has the cuffs undone, leaning down far, and he swings around, elbow coming straight for Jared's nose, his other hand reaching for Jared's hand holding the knife. Jared sees it coming, so he ducks to avoid Mark's elbow, swings to the other side and sinks the knife into the first part of Mark he can reach.

Mark goes down with a noise Jared has never heard anyone make; pain, and blood, and so much hatred and fury mixed together. Jared pulls the knife back out, doesn't even look at Mark as he steps past him, sinks to his knees in front of Jensen.

"Jen?" His hands ghost over Jensen, taking in the blood gushing from his shoulder, thick, warm red rivers, too much. Jensen's head leans back against the shelf, his eyes heavy lidded, his lip split, ugly purple splotching his cheek. 

"Yeah," Jensen whispers, his skin as white as the counters in the kitchen. "Is he..."

Jared strokes a hand down Jensen's good cheek, just to feel him, to comfort himself and confirm Jensen is still here with him. "I dunno," he mumbles, tries to remember what little first aid knowledge he has. He rips his t-shirt off and balls it up, pressing it tightly against Jensen's shoulder. 

"'M okay."

Jared laughs, edge of hysteria to the noise that is too damn loud in the suddenly quiet stockroom. He leans down until he can look at Jensen better, can't help himself, and he brushes his lips over Jensen's, tasting blood, and sweat, and every raw emotion that the stockroom feels drenched in. "You need a doctor."

"Prob'ly."

Jensen offers Jared a small smile, then looks over his shoulder at Mark. Jared follows his line of sight, to Mark, curled up on the floor clutching his side.

"Do you... do you want me to..." Jared swallows, lets the words fill the space between them, as he tries to think if he's even capable of it if Jensen says yes. Different now that Mark is down, not the same as cutting someone's throat to prevent him from regaining the advantage. He circles the words he doesn't say without looking at them too closely, co-existing with them, without any judgment or emotion attached to it.

Jensen sits up a little straighter, corners of his mouth pulled down in a tight wince, and Jared helps him, keeps him steady with a hand on his shoulder. He considers Mark for a second, and Jared watches him do it. There's not even anger where he expected fury. It's an expression unlike anything Jared has ever seen on Jensen's face, and he's been paying enough attention that he thought he'd seen them all. It looks a little like resignation, a little like pity, exhaustion, but not defeat. It looks like civil war behind Jensen's eyes, different parts of him pulling at him, trying to squeeze him into a response.

"Jen?"

"No." Jensen clears his throat, presses the shirt tighter to his shoulder, but the blood keeps flowing out of him as if someone is squeezing him. "It ends here. I kill him, someone will come to collect revenge, and it never fucking ends."

"Then what?"

Jensen focuses back on him, hand reaching, settling on the back of Jared's neck, and Jared lets himself get pulled closer until Jensen's clammy forehead rests against his own. "Go find a guard."

"A guard?"

"Pray it's Dugas."

"But Jensen-"

"He's not acting on his father's orders. When the guards find out they've been played..."

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. Jared nods, once. He wants to pull Jensen close, kiss him, lick the sadness and defeat from his lips, but priorities. His knees click when he stands up, handing Jensen the knife. "Don't fucking die. I'll be right back."

*

When Jared was little, he'd thought he might like to be a teacher. Not just any teacher, a math teacher. He enjoyed the order of numbers adhering to rules, of equations and balance; math holds the universe together, and he'd thought if he could uncover its secrets it would be a bit like unraveling the meaning of life.

Life had taken him down a different path, but the need to create order from chaos has never really left him. When things get overwhelming, he likes to analyze, find patterns, maybe even move things around so he can see what happens next. Adjust. Angola has been the epitome of chaos; no rules, no sense, and the only thing that unraveled was Jared in the middle of it all.

Still, even in Angola, he tries to quiet his mind, soothe his emotions by focusing on what _is_ there; whether it be an old puzzle in the back of a cupboard in the rec room or a little candy farm, it's not about the size or the content, it's about finding something to anchor himself to. Something to stop him from floating away like a balloon ripped off its string. For a while there, he'd been determined to make Jensen his next puzzle, but he'd underestimated how easily Jensen would become bigger than Jared could contain, and it became less about the puzzle, and more about this unnameable thing between them. One didn't quite replace the other, and when the foundations of his world are shaky, he still needs an anchor.

Which is why he finds himself sitting cross-legged on Jensen's bunk, hands balled into fists heavy in his lap, eyes fixed on the brick wall in front of him. Whoever had made this wall had not done a particularly good job. The grouting was uneven, creating a web of slightly lighter gray that was wrong, the bricks dancing haphazardly between lines that struggled to contain them. All of it was wrong.

He had found Dugas, and another guard. He had nearly been tasered for his trouble, frantic and out of his cell well after lights out. If his story had made any sense, he'd be surprised, but the few jumbled sentences he got out had Dugas's face settle into a deep frown.

Dugas had called for back up, cutting Jared off when Jared tried to tell him it was the guards who had made this happen, it was the guards who couldn't be trusted.

"I know, Jared. I get it. But I know who I can trust in my own wing."

Dugas had taken one look at the mess of the storage room before springing to action, barking out orders, seamlessly fitting back into his unofficial role as general of the block. Mark had been taken to the infirmary, passed out from blood loss. Jensen was hauled to his feet, his face pale but eyes calm when he nodded at Jared.

"Not gonna die," he had said, leaning against Jared for a moment before another guard took him away. 

Jared had protested, insisted Dugas go with Jensen, because he didn't trust fucking _anybody_ anymore, and anyone with a uniform even less. Dugas had gritted his teeth in annoyance, but finally decided that a frantic Jared really wasn't what he wanted to spend the night dealing with anyway. So Jared was taken back to his cell while Dugas went with Jensen, and Jared's heartbeat started to slow down to manageable. 

And so Jared sits, and studies the bricks, and tries not to let his mind wander.

It is much later in the night when Dugas appears at his bars, his face hidden in the shadows.

"You awake, kid?"

"Yeah."

"Everything is gonna be ok. He's stitched up, will be back tomorrow. Told me to tell you to get some sleep and quit worrying."

Jared's eyes close for a moment, as he allows himself to relax the tension in his muscles. "What about the guards?"

"Suspended without pay pending an investigation. I don't think they'll be back."

"Pellegrino?"

Dugas hesitates, glances over his shoulder as if he's worried someone may overhear. "He will be moved to a different wing. His eh... yeah, it's taken care of."

"Ok."

"Get some sleep, kid." With that, Dugas leaves him alone with his thoughts.

Jared stretches out on the bunk, on his side, his eyes still on the bricks, and he listens to the familiar sounds of the cell block. He's not sure how long it takes, but eventually, the events of the day catch up with him, and his eyes close as he falls into an exhausted sleep.

No one comes to wake him up in the morning. The sound that wakes him is the rumble of inmates, the swell of frustration, the realization that their little stockroom adventure has triggered another lockdown. He blinks at the metal slats holding his own mattress in place above him, part of him relieved that he doesn't have to go back to the kitchen just yet. Now if Jensen just comes back, maybe they can start putting some things together and get back to some semblance of normality.

He's carefully avoided thinking about any of Mark's revelations. It would feel intrusive to do so, because he got the information from someone who was sharing it to hurt. It is meaningless if it's not coming from Jensen. Still, he can't help but hope that maybe Jensen will want to tell him his side of the story. At least provide some context to some of the things Mark had said. Not for the sake of knowing, not anymore, but because he'd like for Jensen to want Jared to know.

Breakfast is dropped outside his cell, but he's not hungry, and somehow he manages to doze off again, enjoying his first lazy morning since he got here. The sound of the bars opening wakes some part of his brain, but he's slow to come back to the world of the wakeful. 

"You look comfortable."

He blinks, relief surging through him when he finds Jensen leaning against the wall. His face looks pale, freckles standing out in harsh contrast, stitches over his cheek, a bandage on his forehead, bruise on the other side of his face. His lips are split, and his eyes red-rimmed raw, as if every one of his nerves has been exposed and set on fire with cruel precision. Still, he's the most beautiful thing Jared has ever laid eyes on, and he's here. The black sweatpants are not his own, different from the soft gray he favors, and the light-blue, long-sleeved shirt has to be infirmary-issued as well, and none of it is entirely Jensen, so all of it looks... wrong.

Jared sits up, scoots over on the bunk, but Jensen doesn't make any motion to sit down. "How are you feeling?"

Jensen swallows, seems to search for the words. "I..." he licks his lips, blinks too slowly. "I really need to sleep for a bit."

Jared stands up, pushes the covers back so Jensen can get into his bunk. "Do you need anything else? Have you eaten? Maybe I can-"

"Shhh," Jensen says, stepping into Jared's space, pressing up against him, and something not entirely unlike a sob licks at Jared's throat because he can't believe they're both here, and alive, and mostly in one piece. "Just let me get some sleep. Long day, night... everything's fine."

"Ok." He wants to wrap Jensen in his arms and never let him out of his sight again, but Jensen is likely to have a thing or two to say about that, and he's sure the thin shirt he's wearing is hiding more bruises. Not to mention a stab wound. Fuck, what a night.

"When I wake up, I'll tell you everything," Jensen whispers, lips against Jared's jaw, brushing over stubble in a way that must hurt his bruised lips.

He carefully presses his lips to a part of Jensen's cheek that is not discolored, then steps aside to let him settle on his bunk. Jensen watches him, eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement, as Jared sits down on the floor against the wall.

"You gonna keep watch?"

"Absolutely."

Jensen nods slowly, his expression still fond as he kicks off his shoes and socks, then stretches out carefully before pulling the blankets over himself. "Gonna tell me a bedtime story, too, Jay?"

Jensen wouldn't be Jensen if there wasn't a bit of sarcasm teasing around the words, and Jared snorts. "My stories suck. Count sheep or something."

"Disappointing." 

It takes exactly three breaths for Jensen to fall asleep. It takes Jared a few more minutes to doze off as well. Getting almost-dead two nights in a row really zaps his energy. When he next wakes up, the cell block has settled into a pleasant, low hum of voices. His knees are locked in place, his ass numb, but the discomfort fades into the background when he sees Jensen blinking at him slowly, stretched on his back, head turned to the side. 

"Good sleep?" Jared croaks, clearing his throat to get his voice to work.

"Yeah. You should come up here, though. Too old to fall asleep sitting on the floor." Jensen sits up carefully and scoots back so he's leaning against the headframe of his bunk, his legs crossed at the ankles. 

Jared groans as he stretches up, bending his knees a few times to shake out the tightness. He sits at the foot of the bed, next to Jensen's feet, turned around so he's facing him. "I'm really glad you're not dead."

Jensen chuckles. "That makes two of us."

They sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, Jared staring at the curve of Jensen's ankle, carefully trying not to ask the million questions that are running through his mind. If he's learned nothing else, he knows Jensen will share what he pleases, when he pleases, and that's ok. 

"I talked to Mark's dad," Jensen says, voice low. "We're not the only ones who are eager for things to settle down around here. They let me make a phone call. Hell, practically forced me to."

"The guards?"

"Warden."

Jared whistles through his teeth. "You really weren't kidding about the Pellegrino's, huh?"

Jensen presses his lips together. "I explained... everything. He was furious, but he believed me. Had Mark moved to a different wing, my...perks" he waves a hand in the air, "reinstated." He closes his eyes and leans his head back against the metal frame. "He apologized."

"I'm sorry," Jared says, because what else can he say? He doesn't really have a line here, but he wants Jensen to know he's listening. 

Jensen's eyes open again, the green still duller than Jared remembers it being. "I didn't know for sure if he'd really been the one... the one to... to pull the trigger." He swallows. "On Chris."

All Jared wants to do is crawl up to Jensen, wrap him in his arms, and do whatever he needs to make Jensen stop sounding like someone has turned him inside out and set fire to all the parts of him that are not made up of violence and survival. He needs to reach out, touch, soothe, but that is just not how they work, it's definitely not how Jensen works, and he knows it. Jensen needs to talk, a little, until he doesn't want to anymore, and Jared just needs to sit here and listen. So he doesn't do any of those things, but he does put a hand on Jensen's ankle, thumb rubbing softly over the exposed skin.

Jensen's eyes are drawn to the movement with a frown, and Jared sees Jensen's mind shifting until he's ok with the small gesture of comfort, allows himself to have it, whether for him or for Jared. "What he said..." Jensen starts, his throat clicking audibly as the words get stuck. "What he said about me... and Chris..." He's still staring down at Jared's hand as if it holds the answers he's looking for, as if it will give him some direction if he just stares long enough. He squeezes his eyes shut, then looks at Jared. "I really wanna tell you that was all lies, but it's true. All of it."

Jared sees a fourteen, maybe fifteen year old Jensen in his head, and he's easy to imagine because of the pictures. Sees him in love with his best friend... the snippets Mark had thrown his way had been enough to chip away at his heart, but he can see it so clearly now, can see the emotion pouring out of Jensen, not quite shame, not quite fear, or defiance, but a little bit of everything that makes Jared's heart beat faster. 

"You were a kid. And you were... in love," he says, doing his best to keep his voice from being nonchalant. This is a big fucking deal, to Jensen, and he won't belittle it or pretend it's not. The words don't quite fit around what Jared thinks it might have been, but he doesn't have any better ones. "I don't think you did anything most teenagers haven't done."

"But he was like my brother. I met him when we were seven years old." Jared shifts slightly, pulls a hand up to rest on his chest. The hand on the side he got stabbed in the shoulder. "We were in a group home, instantly fucking inseparable. Got a foster family a few times, that just made us closer."

"They let you guys stay together?" 

"They did after the first time," Jensen smiles, a faraway look on his face as if he can see the memories playing out in front of him. "We always ended up back in that institution. Most people don't feel like opening their home to two rowdy, problematic boys with antisocial tendencies."

The words seem rehearsed, as if someone had told Jensen this at regularly scheduled intervals more than two decades ago, reminding him why he didn't deserve a family of his own. 

"Then came Mr Pellegrino. He saw us pick the pockets of this one beat cop, and he said he liked the guts it took to steal from a police officer in broad daylight. We were thirteen, he took us in, took us to New Orleans. They were probably glad to be rid of us."

"And Mark?"

"Mark was walking around the city like he owned it. Il ragazzino Pellegrino, do you know who my daddy is?" Jensen doesn't sound bitter, seems detached from the entire chapter of Mark in his life. Maybe. "We really were excited, you know. Thought it was fucking awesome to have a big brother who could get us booze, take us to parties, introduce us to all of his cool grown up friends."

"I'm guessing it didn't happen like that."

Jensen uncrosses his ankles, puts one in Jared's lap as he sinks a little further into the pillow at his back. "At first, he seemed alright. He's an only child, his mom died when he was in diapers. He was a lonely child, and I think he liked having two snot-nosed kids following him around, worshiping him. But then, his dad thought we could be useful. Could help out, get trained into the business."

Jared does his best to keep his expression blank, but all he can think is, fuck, Jensen had been so fucking young. He never stood a chance, never had an option to do anything other than this, but hot on its heels is rejection of the thought. Somehow, he knows Jensen wouldn't like it if Jared framed it like that in his head, wouldn't appreciate being relegated to a purely reactive force in his own life. 

"When I was fifteen he took me to a hit. A drug dealer, was skimming off the top, and the sides, probably." Jensen rubs his hand over his stubble, his brow creased in thought. "He made the guy get on his knees and confess what he'd done. The guy begged for his life, and he shot him anyway. Said he didn't believe in second chances, we are what we are, and that guy was a thief."

"Shit..."

Jensen nods, but he doesn't look affected by the memory. As if the part of his brain that generates emotions is cut off for people who don't deserve it, in his, or Mr Pellegrino's opinion. "I wasn't scared. I didn't like it, or anything. I just... I dunno, I just _was_ , and so he thought that should be my job."

"What about Chris?"

"Chris came with me, sometimes. But when he grew up, he got big. Like, arms that could break a grown man in half big. He became the step before me, the warning, the last shot to do the right thing. And a lot of the time, he didn't even have to beat anyone up, most people got with the program quickly when he showed up."

Jared ignores the wistfulness he tastes in Jensen's words, tries not be jealous because who is jealous of a dead man? Part of him wishes he knew Jensen as well as Chris had known him, but in the same breath, he never wants to be like Chris.

"So... yeah. Mark got pissed. Felt passed over or something. He just wasn't very good, but what he lacked in talent he sure as shit made up for in anger."

"So he framed you for Chris?"

Jensen's eyes narrow slightly. "Apparently, he made the old man believe we wanted to sell him out to the feds, were feeding them information. Pellegrino felt betrayed, Mark suggested he could make it all disappear..."

Clever. Horrible, cruel, disgusting, but fucking clever.

"And he was right about that part, too. Chris thought he was going out on a job, I was somewhere at a bar, drunk, trying to forget our last fight." Jensen swallows, shakes his head. "No, I was trying to forget him, rip him out by the roots because... it just got unbearable to be around him after we..."

Jensen trails off and Jared doesn't press the issue. He doesn't need all the details, and he certainly doesn't need them today.

"Mark shot him, planted evidence, there was a trail of angry text messages, because I was so fucking upset with him. It wasn't difficult to make it look like I'd snapped in a jealous rage and killed him." Jensen talks more quickly now, as if he wants Jared to know, but he doesn't want to linger on any part of it.

Jared slides his hand up Jensen's calf, squeezing lightly. "I'm sorry."

"It's ironic. I went to prison for life, for the one murder I didn't commit. That's Mark's idea of Shakespearean justice."

The silence stretches between them, Jensen's expression tired but focused, as if he's chewing on things long in his past, dredged up and forced on display before he wanted Jared to know. Assuming he ever wanted Jared to know at all. Everything he has said today, though, that was voluntary, and Jared intends to keep it close and take care of it, and if that means never mentioning one syllable of it to Jensen again, he can do that too.

They're still sitting on the bottom bunk, Jensen's eyes drifting shut occasionally, Jared fully slouched down, both of Jensen's feet in his lap, when a guard comes to bring them dinner. Not Dugas.

"Got your dinner," he says, as he slides the bars open.

Jared gets up and takes the two trays. "Thanks."

The guard's eyes are fixed on Jensen, brow drawn tight in concern. "Do you eh, need anything else?"

Jared's eyes widen, and he looks behind him at Jensen. Jensen shakes his head, doesn't say anything else. Jared waits for the guard to leave before he hands Jensen his tray and sits back down.

"So I guess your reign has been fully restored?"

"Something like that." Jensen pokes around his pasta, his nose wrinkled. He hesitates for a moment, then glances up at Jared, face thoughtful. "Mr Pellegrino... suggested I may want to expand his interests in Angola. Build the family's presence and influence back up."

Jared inhales sharply, ignores the flurry of excitement that Jensen is sharing with him. "What would that mean?"

"I'm not entirely sure. He's coming up at the weekend."

"Would you want to?" He doesn't like the idea. It sounds like unnecessary danger, but it also sounds like something that may end up taking Jensen away from him. The thought kills his appetite, leaves his fingers slightly numb.

"I don't know," Jensen says quietly.

Nothing more is said on the subject. They finish dinner, read for a while, brush their teeth, wash themselves as best they can by the sink, Jensen leaning heavily against the wall, face pale as he stretches his arm to change his t-shirt. It takes him several minutes and a string of pained hisses and curses before he lets Jared help him out of his shirt, at which point he is too out of breath to put on a new one.

"Remind me not to get stabbed for a while, hm?"

Jared swallows, eyes sliding over the bruises on Jensen's body; dark smudges along his ribs, a purple stain like spilled ink on his lower back. Several cuts and stitches, and the white gauze on his shoulder, hiding the worst of his injuries. "Fuck, what the hell did he do to you?"

"He'd had me for a while when you got there." Jensen shuffles back to his bunk, sits down heavily. "And he had a lot of shit to get off his chest."

"Why didn't you kill him?"

Jensen doesn't respond. He stretches out as close to the wall as he can, the invitation clear yet unspoken. 

"I don't wanna hurt you." Jared is not a small guy and that bunk is really fucking tiny.

Jensen looks up at him, unguarded, eyes void of the usual steel-enforced walls he keeps in excellent condition. "Then don't."

Jared falls asleep with his face buried in Jensen's neck, half of him draped over Jensen, the other half mostly on the mattress.

*

It's two days before they're let out of their cell, and at that point there is no getting around the smell of the cell block after 100 inmates spent 48 hours sweating into every nook and cranny. Two days of guards coming to check on them, of painkillers for Jensen and a visit from the doctor. Two days of a few lines of conversation with Rich and Misha across the corridor, nothing deeper than making sure they were all ok, not with that many ears tuned in. Two days, that Jensen and Jared spend catching up on sleep, talking, or sharing stories more like. Filling in some of the color to the incomplete facts they now know about each other. Adding some humanity. Jared tells Jensen about his mom, his dad, why and how he left Texas.

"I just needed to not be there anymore." Jared's sitting on the floor, his back against the bunk, head leaning against Jensen's thigh. Jensen's fingers stroke through his hair, and Jared doesn't need to look to know Jensen is listening intently, letting him talk. 

"Did it help?"

He considers the question. "I think so. It gave me some distance, somewhere to be where not every last thing reminded me of her."

Jensen hums, his fingertips skimming over Jared's ear.

Jensen tells him about the trauma group, tells him he was there because of Chris. He really did have firsthand experience in recognizing Jared's PTSD.

"You don't need to confess your crimes to go to therapy." Jensen looks over Jared's shoulder through the bars. "I could talk about finding him and just... all that. Without them saying anything about how I'd been convicted for it."

Jared traces the curve of Jensen's foot, smiles when Jensen hisses at the tickle. "Why'd you go? I guess they didn't make you?"

"Misha convinced me. He tried to sell it as they have cookies, what do you have to lose, but he may have had a point."

"I'm sorry you guys stopped being friends."

Jensen presses his foot against the flat of Jared's stomach, wriggles his toes. "Didn't stop. Just took a break."

It's comfortable because it's unforced. Jared is no longer trying to squeeze every detail out of Jensen, and Jensen is no longer dancing circles around Jared, weaving intricate webs of half-truths and manipulation. There are some details he skims over, some things that make his eyes darken, has him clench and unclench his fingers. That razor sharp edge of danger is still close to the surface, but with Jared backing off and a bit of shared history, it's not the most salient thing in their conversation. Jensen doesn't talk about Chris; not in any detail. Not about them growing up together, not about his feelings changing, not about what happened between them or why it hadn't worked out. Not about the night he found Chris dead. No more than what he said the day he got back from the infirmary, and Jared doesn't push. His obsession with needing to know every secret Jensen has fades into the background, replaced by an odd sense of balance between them.

His obsession with the sounds Jensen makes when he comes undone, Jared's lips wrapped around his dick, long legs sprawled, one hand curled in Jared's hair, lips parting on a sigh, a moan... _that_ obsession is rapidly burning him from the inside out, and he spends what feels like hours licking all those pretty sounds out of Jensen's mouth, careful not to crush him or lean on any bruised or injured part of him. He learns all the sensitive - spot below his ear - and ticklish - any part of his feet or sides - parts of Jensen, mapping them out with his fingers and lips. Jensen returns the favor, taking his sweet time making Jared fall apart on his fingers, a promise of more to come as soon as he can move without wincing in pain. 

When they are let out of their cell early on Friday, it seems as if they're both scrambling for purchase in the world outside their cell. Jared sticks close to Jensen, too used to the proximity, the comfort it somehow brings when he can see Jensen from the corner of his eye without ever needing to turn his head. Even if the threat is gone, things are not the same. The last few days have thrown them closer together, and even if it goes unspoken, Jared thinks Jensen feels it, too.

"You boys been keeping busy, hm?" Rich says, as soon as the four of them start heading for the showers.

Jared's cheeks flush, the tips of his ears hot. "I eh... we...there's eh..."

"Enlightening as always, Nemo. I wasn't referring to your X-rated night programming." He pauses. "Or 24-hour programming I should say."

Not for the first time, Jared wishes a hole would appear in the concrete under his feet. Jensen looks unperturbed, not a care in the world as he starts taking off his clothes in the changing room, which is doing nothing to stop the heat flushing through Jared.

"I'm talking whatever happened to you two that triggered our house arrest." Rich's voice trails off, and when Jared looks up, his wide eyes are fixed on the angry swirl of bruises on Jensen's back.

Something he can't quite put a name to sparks angrily at the top of his spine, and he fixes cold eyes on Rich. "Rich."

Rich's eyebrows rise, and he holds up a hand, mouths 'sorry'. 

Stepping back into the kitchen feels the same as every day, when he'd expected to feel some lingering distaste. Jensen doesn't seem bothered either, and Jared thanks his lucky stars that everything that happened, _happened_. It's in the past, and now, they can start going back to whatever flavor of carefully-constructed normal they had before. Rich and Jensen serve breakfast to a line of inmates who have clearly missed their cooking, or so Rich claims. Loudly. To every one of them.

"So... I'm guessing from..." Misha winces, then smiles evilly, "absolutely everything I have tried my best not to get a glimpse of in the last few days that you guys figured out your misunderstandings?"

Jared pours four cups of coffee - black for Jensen and Misha, cream and too much sugar for him and Rich - and doesn't try to keep the smile off his face. "We talked. Shared. You were right. Mostly."

"I typically am," Misha nods gravely, hand curling around the cup Jared gives him. 

They fill Rich and Misha in on the events of that night over breakfast. The specifics, the family connection, anything related to Chris, all of that they brush over by silent agreement. Jared suspects that Misha may know some, if not all of it, but his expression doesn't give anything away.

"And they just removed him from the block and gave you your powers back?" Rich asks, his eggs forgotten.

"The wing. And yeah, I guess."

"So it's over," Misha says softly as he plays with his food.

Yeah. It really fucking is. After breakfast, Jensen and Jared clean up the service counter. A new inmate is mopping the canteen, and Jared shares a look with Jensen that breathes of relief, and maybe a hint of disbelief that they have been able to put all this behind them.

"Whatcha lookin' at, Padalecki?" Jensen smirks, tilting his head as he looks Jared up and down slowly.

Jared puts a careful hand on his hip, but Jensen's already there, lips on Jared's in what is a downright filthy kiss that has no place anywhere near food preparation. Jared gasps when Jensen's teeth sink into his bottom lip, just the right side of painful, and he presses closer, Jensen's hands on his lower back, fingers curled in his shirt.

"Fuck me, Mish, is that we look like?"

"Shorter... but yes."

Jensen pulls away, and Jared whines. 

"Shh," Jensen winks at him. "Later."

They turn around, as Jared tries to calm down enough to stop imagining Jensen in all kinds of compromising positions all over the damn kitchen. So many counters...

"Here." Rich holds out an apron to Jensen, black faded to charcoal gray. "Guess you're officially part of the kitchen crew, you should have your own apron."

Jensen looks at the folded cloth, and for a moment Jared expects him to make a snarky comment about wearing aprons or joining the merry wives of Windsor or something equally Jensen. He doesn't. He takes the apron with a smirk, holds it in front of him as if making sure it's his color. "I do glaze a mean carrot."

On Sunday, Rich and Jensen have visitors. Jensen's expression is tight, his eyes laser-focused, and Jared knows that he barely closed his eyes all night. He's still sleeping stretched half across Jensen's chest, and he'd felt the thoughts running wild in Jensen's mind with every sigh, every tense muscle. When they leave, Misha and Jared go to the rec room, Jared returning to his puzzle project, Misha halfheartedly sorting pieces of the same color together. The monotony is welcomed after a few weeks that left them all a little shaken.

Jensen and Rich return just before dinner, but Jared refrains from bringing up the visit until they're back in their cell. Probably not the best type of conversation to have in public, even just in front of Rich and Misha.

"So what did he say?"

Jensen studies his ribs in the mirror, finger tracing over the fading bruises, Jared's eyes locked on the motion and he thinks he may want to trace the same path with his tongue, wonders if the discolored skin will taste differently.

"They used to have a stronghold in Angola, years ago. A protective presence when people took the fall, executors of revenge if someone ratted." Jensen's hand moves to his shoulder, starts peeling at the bandage. "They did a bit of drug trade, some other shit people wanted to get their hands on. But mostly just keeping the prison in check and running how it suited them."

"What changed?"

"New warden, new regime. Guy was a rookie, wanted to run his prison like a military camp. Didn't realize this whole joint was held together by the Pellegrino's and paper glue. There was a huge riot, a ton of 'em died. The rest were placed in a separate cell block. Many of them are dead now, or hell, I dunno how many are still in here."

Jared watches Jensen's face tighten when he traces the stitches in his shoulder with a fingertip. "And now he wants you to get the band back together?"

Jensen hums. "That warden was relieved of his post. A new one with more sense took his place. Never fully reinstated what was left of them, but then they haven't had a leader to organize them in years."

"But now there's you." Jared tries to snuff out the sinking feeling in his stomach, tries to think of potential benefits of Jensen leading a prison gang - no, _the_ prison gang - but he doesn't see many. None that outweigh the risk.

Maybe Jensen catches his tone of voice. He turns around slowly, eying Jared up and down in an assessment he hasn't turned on Jared in a while. "No."

"Huh?"

Jensen shrugs with his good shoulder, shakes his head. "I told him there are other things I'd like to focus on right now. I need things to calm down and go back to normal, not jump right into more drama."

"Oh." It's not a no, but it's a not right now. That's good enough. He pushes the thought of Jensen running the block, wing, prison, out of his head, tries not to think too hard on how many more murders that might entail, but it's different now, in a way. He's beginning to see the gray Jensen is fond of pointing out.

Jensen leans against the wall, hip cocked, sharp hipbone peeking out over the waist of his boxers. "You're never gonna give me my bunk back, are ya?"

"Do you want me to?"

Jensen shakes his head slowly as he pushes away from the wall. The lights from the corridor throw odd shapes over his face as he sinks to his knees between Jared's legs, hands settling heavy on Jared's thighs. "I don't."

Jared leans back on his hands, eyes locked on Jensen's as Jensen's hand trails down Jared's chest, pausing at his boxers. He hesitates for a moment, then leans in, mouths Jared's hardening dick through the soft cotton. 

"Fuck," Jared whispers, his legs splaying further. "Please."

Jensen nuzzles against the inside of his thigh, lips parting to suck a bruise into the skin. "Please what?"

"You feel well enough to fuck me yet?"

Jensen peeks up at him through his eyelashes, his hand reaching into Jared's boxers, fingers curling around him. "Mmm, think I do."

Jared has thought about this extensively over the last few days, the anticipation building under his skin. The promise alone has his dick twitch, and he really fucking hopes he doesn't come before he can feel Jensen inside him. Jensen's tongue licks around the head of his dick, his other hand lightly squeezing Jared's balls, one knuckle pressing just behind them.

"Such a tease," Jared breathes, straining with the effort to keep his eyes open, keep them on Jensen sucking down his dick like it's all he's ever wanted in his mouth. 

"Oh, I don't tease," Jensen smiles, sucking him down again, then opening his mouth so Jared can see his dick on Jensen's tongue. He swallows him back down, then moves back up, slippery slide of saliva and precome smoothing the way. "You trying to rush me, Jay? Know I like to take my time."

"May not make it to the main act if you take too much time."

Jensen hums around his dick, and the vibrations thrum through him. His hand wrapped around Jared, Jensen lets the tip of Jared's cock play over his lips, painting them with precome as he keeps looking up at Jared. "How would you like to come?"

"H-huh?"

"Wanna come in my mouth?" Jensen licks his tongue up the underside of his cock. "On my face?" He rubs it against his cheek. "Or wanna come all over yourself with my dick inside you? Really, the options are endless."

Jensen's low words have stolen his breath, and he has to reach down, squeeze his fingers around the base of his dick to stave off his orgasm. "With you inside me."

"Good choice." Jensen stands up, motions for Jared to do the same, and, as soon as he does, Jensen presses him against the cold frame, hand fisted in Jared's hair, and he can taste himself on Jensen's tongue. Jensen spins them around, pushes his own boxers down in one smooth move, his lips never leaving Jensen's until he lies back on the bunk, his dick heavy and leaking against his stomach. 

Jared's heart is pounding in his ears, his skin too hot and too tight. 

"C'mere," Jensen says, his hand on Jared's, tugging sharply. "Can't do this any other way yet, not sure I can hold myself up."

There are several ways they could do this that would not require Jensen to hold himself up, but Jared thinks that maybe Jensen wants to look at him. The thought makes him bite back a soft moan, and he jerks into motion, straddling Jensen's thighs. There is only just enough space for him to sit up straight, but he isn't that interested in bumping his head into his mattress anyway. Instead, he braces himself on either side of Jensen's head and leans down, kissing sloppily from Jensen's lips, down the side of his throat, to his collarbone. He traces his tongue across to the other side, only drawing back when he's too close to the stitches in Jensen's shoulder. He feels Jensen's eyes on him as he presses his lips around the scar, as if he can magically fix the hole Mark stabbed into Jensen.

"Does it hurt?"

"Not right now." Jensen's voice is deep and scratchy, a little breathless. His hands rub over Jared's ass, pulling him closer, letting their hard cocks rub together between them.

Jared reaches over Jensen's head, hands him the bottle of lube.

"Come up a little."

He shuffles forward on his knees until he's sitting on Jensen's belly, his knees as wide as he can to stop them from digging into Jensen's sides. 

The first cold, wet touch to his hole has him shiver and bury his face in Jensen's neck. They've done this part before, but it's different, the intent, the goal not the same. Jared breathes out harshly as Jensen's finger circles him slowly, not pushing, just teasing, lips on his hair. Jensen's other hand digs into Jared's thigh, and he pushes the tip of his finger inside, stilling for a moment to let Jared adjust.

Jared wriggles his hips, tries to get Jensen to fucking move already, and Jensen takes the hint, slowly starts working his finger in and out. He slips in a second one, fingers scissoring, opening him up, and Jared rubs against him, trying to chase some friction against his leaking dick. Jensen curls his fingers inside him, and Jared arches his back, pushing down on the fingers, hot coils of pleasure shivering through him.

"Fuck, Jen, please, just do it."

Jensen sucks on Jared's bottom lip, pulls his fingers free slowly, leaving Jared feeling empty. "Condom?"

Jared looks over Jensen's head, his hair falling into his eyes and he grabs a condom off the shelf. Jensen tears it open with his teeth, hand splayed on Jared's stomach pushing lightly until Jared gets the hint and settles back on Jensen's thighs instead. Jensen rolls the condom on quickly, then puts one hand on Jared's hip, thumb rubbing over the bone as he looks up.

"You sure?"

Jared groans, lifts himself up on his knees, his hands braced on either side of Jensen. "I swear, if you don't fuck me right now-"

"Bossy," Jensen smiles, lining himself up, darkened eyes fixed on Jared's face.

Jared swallows when he feels the thick head of Jensen's dick press against him, steeling himself for a moment before he starts to sink down slowly. The stretch is unlike anything, the feeling of fullness, of Jensen inside him. His eyes slip shut for a moment, but he opens them again when he hears Jensen gasp, finds Jensen looking up at him, lips slightly parted, every muscle in his stomach and chest tight as he seems to keep himself from thrusting up. Jensen's fingers find his, curling around them and squeezing as Jared moves down further, until Jensen is fully sheathed inside him.

"Fuck," Jared breathes, shaking his hair out of his eyes. He leans down slowly, lips finding Jensen's, the movement making Jensen moan into his mouth.

"Fuck, Jay, can I..."

"Yeah." Jared runs a hand through Jensen's sweat damp hair, keeps him in place so he can kiss him better as Jensen plants his feet on the mattress and starts to move.

Jensen sets a slow rhythm, hitting Jared's prostate every other thrust, one hand a bruising grip on Jared's hip, the other in his hair, lips spit-slick and messy, and every nerve in Jared's body vibrates with pleasure. 

"God, you're so fucking tight, feel fucking perfect." Jensen's pupils are blown wide, hot breaths mingling between them, and this is everything, every piece of Jared being ripped apart and put back together, with every push of Jensen's hips against his ass.

His nose brushes over the healing bruise on Jensen's cheek, and he darts his tongue out, tasting sweat, and soap, and Jensen. It's almost impossible to get any leverage in his crouched over position, but he manages to brace himself on his knees, pulling up when Jensen pulls back, pushing down on every thrust, meeting Jensen halfway and pulling low moans from Jensen's lips.

Jensen's hand reaches between them, fingers closing around Jared's cock, and he cries out, unable to muffle the sound in any way.

"That's it," Jensen whispers, thumb slipping over the head, spreading precome down, his rhythm not even faltering, slap of skin every time Jared's ass bounces in his lap. "Come for me, Jay."

The heat that's been building inside him ripples through him as he comes, and he swears he can feel it from his fingertips down to his toes. Jensen's lips swallow the noises he's making, hand stroking through his hair, the other one down his spine making him shiver with the aftershocks of the force of his orgasm. "Fuck," he huffs out, forehead leaning on Jensen's shoulder, "am I dead?"

Jensen's lips ghost over the top of his head, his hands settling back on Jared's hips. "Please don't force me to make a crack about necrophilia while my dick is still inside you."

Jared snorts, then lifts his head up, takes in Jensen's flushed face, smile playing over kiss-swollen lips, look in his eyes as if he could - and would - eat Jared alive. Jared moves his hips back and forth, rewarded with a hissed in breath from Jensen. "Keep going."

Jensen doesn't need to be told twice. He squeezes his hands on Jared's hips and pushes up, once, twice, three times, and his body goes tense under Jared, every muscle pulled tight, eyes slipping shut, and the way his back arches off the bed should not be possible with Jared sitting on top of him. Jared steals the moans from Jensen's lips, swears that he can feel Jensen come inside him like he's never going to stop. 

When Jensen's heartbeat slows down, Jared carefully lifts himself up, only to immediately collapse again, careful to avoid Jensen's shoulder. "I think I just found the best leg workout in the history of workouts."

Jensen chuckles above him. "You should market it, not sure there is a better motivation for leg day."

"Yeah, I could start a group session in the gym maybe... round up some-"

Jensen's fingers on his cheek push until he's face to face with Jensen. "Don't even fucking think about it," Jensen says, voice low, deep with possessiveness that has Jared's stomach tighten pleasantly, even as he wonders when _that_ became a thing. Probably best not to leave Jensen with even the illusion though, the last thing they need right now is another string of accidents happening. 

He kisses Jensen lightly, nipping at his bottom lip. "I'm not."

At some point, Jensen makes them get up so he can flush the condom, and they can make an attempt to clean themselves with a wet washcloth. It feels like sneaking around in the dark, the thought of getting caught by a guard more than a little amusing. By unspoken agreement, they settle back on the bottom bunk, well-versed by now in the best way they fit together without putting any pressure on the parts of Jensen that are still healing up. Jared's head tucked under Jensen's chin, Jensen's arm around him, fingers tracing invisible patterns on Jared's back. Jared's arm and leg thrown over Jensen, the covers pulled up to their middles as they lie together in the darkness of the cell block, listening to the never-fading sound of sleeping inmates.

"This ain't so bad," Jared whispers, enjoying the feeling of shared sweat drying on his skin in the cool breeze of the airconditioning. "Told you we'd fit." 

Jensen yawns, stretches his free arm over his head. "Go to sleep."

"Yeah. Night, Jen."

"Night, Jay."

*

Monday morning comes too soon, as always. Jared blinks awake when the bars open, finds his cheek smushed into Jensen's chest.

"Dude, you drool in your sleep." Jensen's voice sounds amused above him.

"Was having good dreams." Jared yawns, turns his head to look up at Jensen's sleep-creased face. 

"Oh, I could tell," Jensen snorts, moving his leg slightly to rub against Jared's hard on through his boxers. 

Jared hides his face in Jensen's neck. "Please don't make me walk to the showers like that."

"Mmm, wouldn't want to give anyone a heart attack this early in the morning." Jensen pushes him off, nearly off the bunk, but they're getting better at instinctively knowing where the edge is. Typically, one inch to the side of how they fell asleep.

"Nemo, I'm so happy for you that you figured out the maximum utilization of limited resources," Rich slaps him on the shoulder as they walk to the showers. "If you two can fit in a bunk, there's hope for every con in this place."

"There's an art to it," Misha smiles, "takes some busted knees and stuff to get used to. Word of advice? Don't try to replicate the success on the top bunk. That way concussions lie."

"Noted," Jensen nods, "was it the ceiling being too low or an actual impact with the floor situation?"

"You really wanna know?" Misha snorts, winking at Rich as they enter the changing room.

"No!" Jared takes off his clothes, eager to get under the lukewarm spray he counts on to wake him up. "Don't give him ideas."

"Gotta mix it up sometimes, Nemo. Better to die of passion than boredom"

"Best not to die at all."

Rich and Misha exit the showers before them, discussing the benefits of soy milk over regular milk - "Absolutely none, Mish. All you're doing is putting the cows out of business." - while Jensen and Jared stay behind in the showers that will likely never fill up with steam because the water just doesn't get hot enough.

Jensen turns to Jared, and Jared can't stop himself from tracing the little rivers of water as they slide down Jensen's chest. Jensen shivers, puts a hand on the back of Jared's neck and pulls him in for a kiss. Chaste, compared to their usual ones, different, but it tastes of a growing sense of familiarity, of belonging. 

"Nemo! Squirt! Get your asses to the kitchen!"

Jensen raises an eyebrow, his face still close enough to Jared that Jared wants to lick his freckles, see what they taste like. "I would reconsider that nickname, Speight," he growls in the general direction of the changing room.

"Point taken. Muévete!"

Jensen and Jared get dressed and make it to the kitchen just a few minutes later than usual. Dugas nods at them when they walk past him, and they nod back. 

"Is he still pissed at you?" Jared whispers, taking his place at the grill to get started on the bacon.

"When was he pissed at me?" Jensen sprays liquid can't-believe-it's-not-butter on the griddle.

"When you were leaning on him to get me to Alex's funeral."

Jensen looks at him pensively, then shrugs. "Just a little upset. He knows how things work."

Jared nods, takes note of the casual tone in which Jensen asserts himself as back in charge. In his defense, things seemed to go better when Jensen was in charge than when Mark took over. At least, for most people. Still, the effortless sense of power that hangs around Jensen, most of it self-made and self-earned... it's not something he will ever let himself forget, but he sees it in a different light now. Sees the good and the bad, and more importantly, the need for some semblance of order. The violence and murder... it's still not something he likes to spend a lot of time thinking about, and it's not something he expects will stop. It doesn't seem to be in Jensen's nature to stop living the way he has just because he's found some people he likes to be around. And there is no doubt in Jared's mind, that will continue to come up, and he can't be sure how he'll react next time, but it's safe to assume they will keep arguing about it. Jared really isn't the type to stop living the way he has just because he maybe fell in love with a hitman a little bit.

"Quit thinking so hard, Jay, you're gonna burn Babe over there."

He serves breakfast with Rich, while Misha and Jensen make them some plates and coffee. 

Rich greets everyone with enthusiasm that should not be allowed in public on Monday mornings. 

"Hebert! Man, you losing weight? Need some extra bacon? Landry, it's taco Tuesday tomorrow, you better be ready."

Jared nods at the handful of inmates whose names he knows, not quite awake enough to add words to the sentiment.

They join Misha and Jensen at their table, Jared next to Jensen in front of a plate of eggs and bacon. 

"Do we actually have tacos?" Rich wonders, nudging Misha under the table. "I don't wanna be the bearer of false hope."

"Should have thought of that before," Misha mumbles, oblivious to what Rich is talking about. "Yes, we have tacos."

Jared looks around the table, at this unlikely bunch who he feels more in place with than he has with anyone in a long time. Prison is still prison; too confined, claustrophobic, suffocating and squeezing the life out of him sometimes, his sentence stretching out in front of him like a road that never disappears over the horizon. Alex is still dead. So is the girl. So is Max Walker, and Robson, but not Pellegrino. He smiles when Misha slaps Rich upside the head, doesn't miss the fond look on Misha's face, or the way he knows Rich's hand is squeezing Misha's knee under the table. He's got real, honest to god friends in prison, and he wouldn't replace them with anyone. 

"Eggs're getting cold," Jensen says next to him, voice soft, low, and his eyes are narrowed slightly, as if he can see the cogs turning over in Jared's head.

Prison is still prison, but he's found a couple of things here that he hadn't realized he was looking for. Feelings he thought he'd felt before, but perhaps not. Even if he doesn't want to put a name on it, doesn't feel like he can just yet. Maybe none of this has a place in prison, or maybe none of it is real, only born out of the situation. Maybe it doesn't count on the outside. Maybe he'll never have to find out. His hand covers Jensen's on his knee, fingers entangling, Jensen's smiling eyes meeting his. Just because he can't put a name to it doesn't mean it's not there. Prison or not, it's there. He knows it is, because when he looks at Jensen, he can feel it. He looks at Jensen and... he's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some parts to this story that have not been told yet. I have plans to write a timestamp about Rich & Misha, about how Jensen met Misha, and about Jensen and Chris. Many thanks for reading.


End file.
